Dan to Tired Camper: "Zip up the man-suit and hike on, fatboy."
It’s the end of May and I’ve only been here for two days. The entire staff is collected on the lawn of the Villa Philmonte. The speaker is just finishing up with thanking almost all 1000 people in attendance when he starts listing off all of the activities that the staff can enjoy.
Speaker: “And Tuesday night is western night over at the PTC. Put on your ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots and come on down to enjoy buffalo steak, freshly made cobbler and line dancing; and if you don’t know how then I’m sure one of our staff members will be happy to give free lessons.”
Dan’s Inner Monologue: “What the fuck am I doing here?”
We’re midway through training, sitting on the porch at Abreu camp on the banks of the muddy Rayado. We can’t go inside the brand spanking new cabin for fear of Hanta Virus, so we’re relegated to the fresh pine boards for the night. We’ve just finished up dinner and are sitting on the twin swings that hang from the ceiling. Rob, a 28 year-old Missourian whose skull and flame tattoos make him look like an ex-con, has been ranting for a good long while.
Rob: “My sister just married an English guy in Hawaii last month. The guy wants to teach English to college kids, which I think makes sense, cause if you wanna learn English, who better to learn it from than an English guy?
(a little latter)
Rob: “This immigration thing is an issue, man. That’s why I’m a heavy supporter of the “Oil for Immigrant” plan. One barrel of oil for every spick that crosses the border.
Matt: “Are they gonna carry it on their back?”
Rob: “I dunno, man, maybe.”
I’m standing in the lobby of the Taos Wal-Mart with James and David. A frazzled-haired-kid of about eleven is sitting at a racing game nearby, not playing but merely flipping the wheel every which way and screaming out obscenities. I’m working hard at grabbing a Superman doll from the claw game, and have already blown about three dollars trying to get it. I think I have it for an instant when it drops from the metal grip and the machine declares my defeat.
Kid: “You lose, fucker.”
The kid stands up and walks past an embankment of gumball machines and novelty dispensaries. He does a triple take and steps back a notch, banging the glass globe housing a thousand watermelon flavored gumballs. He reaches into his pocket and drops a quarter into one of the toy machines. A pink yo-yo wrapped in plastic drops to the floor. He picks it up and walks toward the entrance, trying to finagle the toy from it’s housing. It slips from his fingers and drops to the floor once more. Acting as if it had just fallen into a void, he walks on into the store without giving it a moment’s notice.
I’ve just discovered the reason for Adderall.
We’re in Mudd and Flood, an outdoor shop in Taos plaza. Rachel is standing by a large display of backpacking stoves. She picks up a tiny one with an unusually derisive name and examines it.
Rachel: “I really wanna buy one of these Pocket Rockets, since I’d only be using it for myself. But what if I needed to use it for three or four people?”
(Matt [my boss] and I cracking up)
Rachel: “What?”
We’re waiting outside the movie theater after seeing “The Omen”. We’re standing in a circle when a whole group of kids walks out wearing bleached denim jackets with the sleeves cut off and Ramones patches pinned to the backs. One is wearing skin tight leopard print pants with combat boots and is sporting a ten inch high Mohawk.
Matt: “What do you think about that, Dan?”
Dan: “Well, I’m thinking I should have worn my pastel shirt with a members only jacket and piano key neck tie. I could have accented it nicely with a pair of penny loafer and socks. Why the hell didn’t anybody tell me it was 80’s day?”
I’m standing in Lover’s Leap camp just after the sun has gone down. I’m nearly in tears at looking at the bear bags my crew has just hung. There are seven bags weighing about thirty pounds each on one rope, since their bumbling fat oaf of an adviser wouldn’t take my advice and bring two ropes. But hey, they’re from Texas, they know better than I do.
The bags are dangling so low to the ground that a midget with polio would be able to jump up and touch them. I tell them that it’s completely unacceptable and that there’s no way they could do this tomorrow. The all head back up the hill, not giving a shit that their food will probably be gone in the morning. I’m dragging my feet at the back of the line when I hear the two kids in front of me talking.
Kid #1: “Damnit, I forgot my toothpaste in my backpack. Do you think that’s a problem?”
Kid #2: “I don’t think so. Mr. Lewis (the aforementioned bumbling fat oaf) said that bears don’t like the smell of peppermint.”
We’re talking about an animal that’s been known to tear apart an outhouse and dig through a pile of shit three feet deep at the mere scent of a bloody tampon. I get in my tent and slip into my sleeping bag. Three seconds later I hear an animal being killed off in the woods. Its shrieking death moans remind me that I have to pick up my paycheck.
It’s two o’ clock in the morning and I’ve just made a very drunken drive back to Base Camp through the Taos pass with Matt. We down three more Sierra Nevadas and bid each other a good nights sleep.
I stumble back in my tent to the sonorous snores of my freak tent mate. His name even sounds like a freak: Austin Fluke. I drop my clothes at the door and climb into bed, my head swimming as it hits the pillow.
I wake up later with an incredible need to piss. I stand up and dip the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs to the appropriate level and have at it. It takes my only a second to realize I’m pissing on Vinyl, and then another second to realize that I’m now pissing on concrete. The fact that I’m still in my tent, however, doesn’t dawn on me until I’m halfway done. I cut it off mid-stream and run outside, where I continue, wondering whether or not I’ve just pissed on my tent mate, with whom I haven’t exchanged three words in almost a month.
Matt and I are sitting in his truck, looking out over the Rio Grande Gorge. We’re listening to Old Crow Medicine Show and drinking lukewarm Rolling Rock. The sun is going down and the desert has been transformed from a dullish brown to a brilliant palate of pink and yellow and blue.
Dan: “I wish you were a chick. This situation is just screaming for us to make out.”
Matt: “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Dan: “You wished you were a chick?”
Matt: “No, asshole.”
Dan: “Good, cause we don’t need this scene to get any gayer.”
Matt: “I know how to make it gayer.” He puts on Coldplay.
Dan: “I think this movie (Pirates of the Caribbean) is gonna be good (it wasn’t).”
Matt: “Me too. I hope it’s not too long though, I have to run the eight o’ clock meeting tomorrow.”
Dan: “I almost didn’t make it to the eight o’ clock last week.”
Matt: “Overslept?”
Dan: “Shit myself.”
Matt: “What?”
Dan: “I shit myself.”
Matt: “Wait. . .explain.”
Dan: “I woke up, sat up in bed, went to fart, and some shit came out.”
Matt: “Are you serious?”
Dan: “As a fucking heart attack.”
Matt: “What did you do?”
Dan: “Well, luckily, my tent mate keeps a roll of toilet paper under his bed.”
Matt: “For jerking off.”
Dan: “Oh, most definitely. So, I took care of everything, threw it all in a plastic bag and tossed it in the dumpster on my way to the meeting.”
Matt: “The underwear too?”
Dan: “Oh, it was bad.”
Matt: “That sucks.”
Dan: “Yeah. But the worst thing was that I had sat there contemplating what to do for a while, and a good deal of it had seeped onto my sheets.”
Matt: “Oh my God.”
Dan: “But I didn’t have time to put them in the laundry, so they had to sit in my hot tent until I was done with my crew that afternoon.”
Matt: “You know Scott Preston?”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Matt: “The same thing happened to him on the trail.”
Dan: “Oh, thank God.”
Matt: “Why?”
Dan: “Well, I mean, I would have felt REALLY foolish if I was the only one.”
It’s one o’ clock in the afternoon and I don’t pick up a bus until two thirty. All my stuff is packed and I’ve already checked my e-mail, so I’m kind of out of stuff to do. I decide to fill in the questionnaire on the back of my Hike-In Form that I so often neglect.
List your weaknesses in the following areas:
1. GENDER ISSUES: “I hate women.”
2. TROUBLE CREW MEMBER: “I carry a wooden paddle for any little sonofabitch that steps out of line.”
LIST YOUR STRENGTHS: “I am the best fucking teacher of bear bag procedures that has ever graced this place. Even Grizzlies quake in my presence.
WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE BAND?: “It’s a tie between ABBA and The Village People.”
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE OFF-SEASON?: “I plan on finding a nice girl and taking her on a drug-addled killing spree through America’s heartland.”
I’m sitting in Logistics with a crew from Mississippi. Most of them have their heads shaved and all of them are looking at me as though I have three eyes. One of them, a fourteen year old with dingy red hair and the goofiest looking smile you’ve ever seen, finally speaks up in a thick southern drawl.
Jessi: “Hey fella, you know you wearin women’s sunglasses?”
Dan: “Yes, Jessi. I’m fully aware.”
Jessi: “You know that’s kinda gay?”
Dan: “Yes, Jessi, I know it’s kinda gay.”
Jessi: “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
(sometime later)
Jessi: “Can we kill a bear?”
Dan: “No.”
Jessi: “Can we kill a squirrel?”
Dan: “No.”
Jessi: “Why not?”
Dan: “Cause there’s a $10000 fine for killing any animal on Phimont property.”
Jessi: “That sucks.”
Dan: “Why would you want to kill anything anyway?”
Jessi: “Cause we’re from Mississippi.”
This was my favorite crew of the summer.
I’m sitting underneath a canopy tent by the parking lot. Rob and Joe are smoking, but I’m just there for the conversation.
Joe: “I say we bust out of here on our next day off and go to Mexico. We could catch a donkey show.”
Rob: “Hell yeah, brother.”
Joe: “Seriously though, how low would you have to feel about yourself to think that fucking a mule is a good way to make a living?”
Rob: “I know, it’s like strippers.”
Joe: “Yeah, man. I mean, why degrade yourself like that?”
Rob: “I’ve been to some good strip clubs though, man.”
Joe: “Oh yeah?”
Rob: “Yeah, man. They’re all over St. Louis.”
Joe: “You’ll have to take me sometime.”
Rob: “I will, man. There’s this one down the street from where I live where they bring out a shower on stage.”
Joe: “Really?”
Rob: “Yeah, man. And three chicks get in there and start goin at it.”
Joe: “A lesbo show!?”
Rob: “Fuck yeah, man. And one chick’s got a suction cup dildo that she sticks to the glass and starts fucking. And it’s glass, too, so you can see all up in that shit.”
He gets up on the picnic table and starts giving a rather visual demonstration in full view of a group of scouts sitting by the health lodge.
Joe: “That’s fucking wild, man.”
Rob: “Yeah, but it’s kind of a bummer since you know they’re not getting off on it.”
Dan’s Inner Monologue: “I gotta write this shit down.”
I walk into the Ranger Office and see Matt sitting at the desk reading “In Cold Blood”. I pound my fist on the desk and demand my paycheck. He pulls it out and I pore over, absolutely torn down by the fact that I’ve been paid $381.09 for twelve consecutive sixteen-hour workdays. Standing next to me is a girl who’s avidly reading some information taped to the desk.
Dan: “Well, free at last! $381! I can finally live.”
Matt: “You could buy yourself some popcorn with that money.”
Dan: “I’ll tell you what that is. That’s coke and hooker money right there.”
The whole office grows quiet immediately. The girl next to me storms out and the guy standing next to me starts cracking up, followed closely by anyone who was within earshot. I became aware that there was something about the situation I wasn’t getting, but Matt was more than willing to fill me in. He leaned in close and pointed to the girl, who was now almost to tent city.
Matt: “That’s Elder Wilson’s daughter. She’s, like, the biggest Mormon here.”
Dan: “Oh, that’s . . .”
Matt: “I know, it’s kinda funny.”
Dan: “No it’s not . . .that’s fucking hilarious.”
Jeff, Sarah, Rob and I are sitting outside of Simple Simon’s Pizza in Cimarron. I was halfway through the pie when I noticed two kids sitting across the way. One was shuffling out cards while the other watched over him, criticizing his every movement. I paid no attention until the kid with the cards exploded in a fit of rage.
Random Simple Simon’s Kid: “Goddamnit, don’t tell me how to play solitaire.”
It’s now my second favorite quote.
I walk into the ranger office to check the schedule for tomorrow morning. I’m picking up a crew at 10:30 and going from Anasazi to Indian Writings, a total hike of about two and a half miles in two days.
I walk over to the clipboard for our training crew, where we can write any questions we have and they’ll be answered by Matt. I take my pen out of my pocket and scribble onto the paper:
Matt,
Why does it burn when I pee? Could this be because of our last trip to Taos? If so, then we need to get in touch with that girl. She said she’s usually hanging around outside the Chevron, so that’d be the best place to look.
Love,
Dan
P.S. Can I borrow “Anchorman”?
I’m sitting in a campsite at Pueblano, listening to my worst crew as they argue over who fucked up their dinner. I’m reading the Philmont Field Guide, an absolutely enthralling encyclopedia of flora and fauna at the Ranch. It says that Woolly Mullein, otherwise known as Lamb’s Ear and is frequently seen growing in the area, was once dried and smoked by Native Americans in order to relieve mental imbalance.
Well, I know something similar that I smoke to cure my mental imbalance, but it sure as shit ain’t growing in abundance only three feet away from where I’m sitting. Instantly, visions of massive piles of money strewn about my apartment from the sale of this stuff started flowing into my head.
The next day I picked a few leaves on my hike to the turnaround and put them on the top of my pack to dry out. That night I jumped in the car, rolled a nice fat J and smoked it. It smelled like pot, but I didn’t feel high. But, then again, a very scarcely get that feeling any more. I was midway to the Shell station in Springer when I noticed a bright red haze on the horizon. A few minutes later, the biggest moon I’d ever seen was rising blood red what seemed like thirty feet in front of me. I locked my arms on the steering wheel, turned around, went back to camp, and fell asleep with this awful hallucination still haunting me.
I woke up the next morning reeling from what I had seen and all excited about my future business prospects. I met up with my crew for breakfast and was disappointed.
Rick: “Did you see that moonrise last night? It was wild.”
Dan: “You saw that too?”
Rick: “I have eyes, don’t I?”
There go my millions.
I have the next three days off, and I’m sitting in our family’s townhouse in the Quirky (Albuquerque, for those of you who aren’t in the know). I have my laptop on, surfing the Internet when I get an IM from Braddy.
Braddy: “Dan?”
Dan: “Brad?”
Braddy: “I want to come to New York for Halloween.”
Dan: “Sick. Let’s do it.”
Braddy: “Yeah. And we can dress up as Hitler and Stalin and march in the parade.”
Dan: “Fuck yeah! One thing though . . .”
Braddy: “What?”
Dan: “I wanna be Hitler.”
Braddy: “Goddamnit, I wanna be Hitler.”
Dan: “No way.”
Braddy: “Fine. But we need a Jew.”
Dan: “Oh, don’t worry, we can use Ben.”
I’m standing in line at Wal-Mart behind a woman with her horde of children. They’re all screaming and crying and it’s all I can do not to bash her over the head with my soon to be purchased copy of “O’ Brother, Where Art Thou?”. I look down at the magazine rack to find the latest copy of people magazine. The headline is a blazing purple typeset that stings the eye just to look at it and announces proudly: I’M GAY! Staring back at me is Lance Bass, making a face that looks like he should be lying on satin sheets with his head rolled back and his legs up in the air with a burly leather-clad man that’s all smiles. After my initial gasp of shock, I literally exclaim:
Dan: “I HAVE to call Steven!”
Woman in Front of Me: “Who’s Steven?”
Unfortunately, his phone isn’t accepting calls right now. Too bad, considering he’s probably the only person who would understand that this is bigger news than Israel declaring war on Lebanon.
I’m sitting in my tent and the sun has just gone down. I’ve spent the day eating Oreos dipped in Peanut Butter and reading the National Enquirer. I’ve watched the entire third season of “Reno 911” and “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”, so naturally, I’m worn out from laughing. I decide to get some real food. I jump in my car and drive a 100 miles to the nearest Sonic. I order my usual “Day Off Special”, which consists of the Bacon Cheddar Cheese Burger Toaster with Tots and a large cherry limeade.
As I’m waiting for my food, the speaker box blares out at me once more.
Girl: “Hey.”
Dan: “Hello?”
Girl: “My friend thinks you’re really hot.”
Dan: “Oh . . .okay.”
Girl: “She says you’re gorgeous.”
Dan: “Well, thank you.”
Girl: “What’s your name?”
Dan: “Frank.”
Girl: “How old are you?”
Dan: “23.”
Girl: “Where are you from?”
Dan: “Florida.”
Girl: “Wow, that’s far away.”
Dan: “”It is.”
A twenty-year-old Mexican man steps out from the inside with my order.
Man: “Hey homeboy, she’s working drive-through tonight, so just drive on up when you’re done, okay?”
Dan: “Um . . .okay.”
I sit there eating my food and make up my mind to do it. I’m not really interested, but since it’s been a little while since I’ve had a face-to-face with any chick that wasn’t a beast, I might as well. I drive around to find her standing there with her cell phone. She’s fat, and that’s all that needs to be said. Of course, it would be rude to not stop and at least have a word, and we all know how much I hate to be rude (sarcasm).
Fatty: “Hi.”
Dan: “Hi.”
Fatty: “So you’re from Florida?”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Fatty: “Do you think the beach there is better than California?”
Dan: “I don’t really like the beach, but yes, I do.”
Fatty: “You fucking liar.”
I may not be much of a flirt, but I do know that having someone call you a fucking liar is not much of a turn on, and this bitch doesn’t have a very large margin of error.
Fatty: “What are you doing in this place?”
Dan: “I was down in Mexico, and now I’m heading up to Albuquerque and then back home.”
Fatty: “That’s too bad. What are those bands on your wrists?”
She’s talking about the blue bracelet I wear on my left wrist from when I had my upper endoscope in May. For those of you who don’t know, it’s where they take a camera, shove it down your throat, and look around to see what’s wrong with the inside of your stomach. And no, they never found anything.
Dan: “It’s from the hospital.”
Fatty: “Were you sick?”
Dan: “Sort of.”
Fatty: “What was wrong with you?”
Dan: “I was in a mental institution for two weeks.”
Fatty: “Whoa . . .what for?”
Dan: “I’d rather not discuss it.”
Fatty: “Wow . . .uh . . .”
Dan: “Well, I have to go. It was very nice talking to you. What was your name?”
Fatty: “Uh . . .Meghan.”
Dan: “Well, Meghan, I hope the divine will of God helps you to find peace. Jesus Loves!”
I drive off down the road and stop at a gas station. I get out and begin to pump gas. I’m hit with a nervous spasm. It’s the first I’ve had since I’ve been here and it’s by far the worst I’ve ever had. I’m shaking so badly that I can’t keep my hand on the pump. I grab it with both hands and place it back into the machine, spilling gas all over the place in the process. I somehow manage to unlock the doors, and when I sit down in the driver’s seat is when the worst of it hits. I twitch violently in my chair and can’t control my breathing anymore. I can’t seem to make my eyes blink, and tears are welling up to where I can’t see either. I try to turn the car on to drive away, but I drop the keys and can’t make myself bend over to pick them up. This goes on for five minutes and I pant and I scream and I start to cry.
It’s eighty-one degrees outside.
Another day off that’s seemed to have dragged on for an eternity. I wake up at nine because you can’t really sleep in since it gets too hot. I start reading “Breakfast of Champions” by Kurt Vonnegut. I’m done with it in three hours. I’d like to think I’m like the eccentric writer in the book, but I think I’m leaning more towards the Pontiac Salesman who dives into insanity and goes on a rampage in the end.
I take out my laptop and start writing. I write almost nine pages and I’m about to go into my tenth. I’ve been writing for hours and it feels like I’m not really saying anything.
I take a break. I go to the smoker’s tent and bum my fifth cigarette of the summer from Rob. The girl from services is there, sitting backwards on the picnic table, not facing anybody. The conversation goes on and she’s staring off into the woods. It starts to rain. A little at first and then a deluge within minutes. The water in the air makes her short black hair cling to her face and the smoke from her cigarette lingers in the air far longer than it should. She stares off into the rain.
She is beautiful.
I want to say something to her. I wanna ask her if she’ll tell on me if I keep my tent for just another crew before turning it back in. I wanna ask her where she goes when she gets off of work. I wanna ask her what the fuck she’s doing here. Why something so gorgeous would opt to spend her summer sitting behind a desk being harassed by teenaged boys and middle-aged men. I wanna tell her that the best part of this job is walking past where she works and hoping to catch a glimpse of her there; washing pots or checking tents or absentmindedly doodling those breathtaking portraits that she hangs on the wall. I wanna tell her everything.
But I can’t.
I just sit there.
Someone says something and another part of me makes some stupid quip and she turns around to face me. She gives me a look of faint recognition. It’s like when you walk into a room and you know you’ve been there but it’s been so long that you can’t remember when. I catch her eyes by accident. They’re deep, and brown. They’re a little darker than her skin, which is now moist and gleaming like a finely polished bar top. Our eyes are locked and I’m screaming on the inside to say something else, to keep her with me for one more second. But she’s already talking to me with her eyes. The glint of recognition is still there. It says, “I know you. We’re in the same boat. We’ve both got other places to be, but we don’t know if we can go back there.” Those eyes are begging for me to say something. Anything.
But I can’t.
I can’t even keep looking at her.
It’s been a second that’s lasted an hour and now my eyes are back on the wood of the picnic table, and she’s turned back around on the bench.
Staring off into the rain.
I walk away. I don’t have a rain jacket and it’s still coming down, but I walk away all the same.
I walk a half-mile to the back of the parking lot. There’s an old oak tree there, and a little murky stream that hugs it constantly. I sit down under that tree and look out at the mesa on the horizon and the horses on the field and the hundred other oaks that line the road to here. I’m drenched.
My time here in nearly up, and I have to decide what I’m going to do. I’ve told my dad that I’d be going back home, but there’s nothing drawing me back there. Chelsea’s offered to fly me to LA to spend a few weeks with her, so I could do that. But that’s LA, and I hate LA.
I look out along the road that hugs the Villa Philmonte and I see a white van idling steadily away from this place. I could do that. I could leave here and drive to Albuquerque. I could spend a few days with my dad, as he deserves better than I’ve been giving him. Then I could keep driving. I could blast through Colorado and Oklahoma and be in Chicago in twenty hours. I could meet up with Ben and we could go to Lollapalooza. Then we could grab Walker and drive back to Ohio. And then up through Pennsylvania and straight on into New England. I could drive to Boston and see Steven. From there I could go to Albany. Put the car on the Amtrak and myself on the MTA and be back in the city before classes started on the third.
But why go north? Why go back at all? Maybe I should leave this place. Take the beetle on down to Mexico. I could drive and drive until I hit the end of the continent or my summer’s earnings ran out, whichever came first. Does it really matter whether it’s two thousand miles to the east or the north or the south?
I have to do something. I have to find that voice that failed me at the smoker’s tent. I have so much to say and it wouldn’t take anything at all to say it.
But I know none of this is gonna happen. I might not go home, but I’m sure as shit not gonna work up the nerve to drive through Mexico. I probably won’t even find my voice, and end up back in the same position that’s making me so miserable. Maybe the situation will change. But probably not. Maybe I’ll change.
I have no idea, but I’m trying to flexible.
P.S. Could this song be any better? The answer is yes, but I'm digging it for the time being.
Speaker: “And Tuesday night is western night over at the PTC. Put on your ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots and come on down to enjoy buffalo steak, freshly made cobbler and line dancing; and if you don’t know how then I’m sure one of our staff members will be happy to give free lessons.”
Dan’s Inner Monologue: “What the fuck am I doing here?”
We’re midway through training, sitting on the porch at Abreu camp on the banks of the muddy Rayado. We can’t go inside the brand spanking new cabin for fear of Hanta Virus, so we’re relegated to the fresh pine boards for the night. We’ve just finished up dinner and are sitting on the twin swings that hang from the ceiling. Rob, a 28 year-old Missourian whose skull and flame tattoos make him look like an ex-con, has been ranting for a good long while.
Rob: “My sister just married an English guy in Hawaii last month. The guy wants to teach English to college kids, which I think makes sense, cause if you wanna learn English, who better to learn it from than an English guy?
(a little latter)
Rob: “This immigration thing is an issue, man. That’s why I’m a heavy supporter of the “Oil for Immigrant” plan. One barrel of oil for every spick that crosses the border.
Matt: “Are they gonna carry it on their back?”
Rob: “I dunno, man, maybe.”
I’m standing in the lobby of the Taos Wal-Mart with James and David. A frazzled-haired-kid of about eleven is sitting at a racing game nearby, not playing but merely flipping the wheel every which way and screaming out obscenities. I’m working hard at grabbing a Superman doll from the claw game, and have already blown about three dollars trying to get it. I think I have it for an instant when it drops from the metal grip and the machine declares my defeat.
Kid: “You lose, fucker.”
The kid stands up and walks past an embankment of gumball machines and novelty dispensaries. He does a triple take and steps back a notch, banging the glass globe housing a thousand watermelon flavored gumballs. He reaches into his pocket and drops a quarter into one of the toy machines. A pink yo-yo wrapped in plastic drops to the floor. He picks it up and walks toward the entrance, trying to finagle the toy from it’s housing. It slips from his fingers and drops to the floor once more. Acting as if it had just fallen into a void, he walks on into the store without giving it a moment’s notice.
I’ve just discovered the reason for Adderall.
We’re in Mudd and Flood, an outdoor shop in Taos plaza. Rachel is standing by a large display of backpacking stoves. She picks up a tiny one with an unusually derisive name and examines it.
Rachel: “I really wanna buy one of these Pocket Rockets, since I’d only be using it for myself. But what if I needed to use it for three or four people?”
(Matt [my boss] and I cracking up)
Rachel: “What?”
We’re waiting outside the movie theater after seeing “The Omen”. We’re standing in a circle when a whole group of kids walks out wearing bleached denim jackets with the sleeves cut off and Ramones patches pinned to the backs. One is wearing skin tight leopard print pants with combat boots and is sporting a ten inch high Mohawk.
Matt: “What do you think about that, Dan?”
Dan: “Well, I’m thinking I should have worn my pastel shirt with a members only jacket and piano key neck tie. I could have accented it nicely with a pair of penny loafer and socks. Why the hell didn’t anybody tell me it was 80’s day?”
I’m standing in Lover’s Leap camp just after the sun has gone down. I’m nearly in tears at looking at the bear bags my crew has just hung. There are seven bags weighing about thirty pounds each on one rope, since their bumbling fat oaf of an adviser wouldn’t take my advice and bring two ropes. But hey, they’re from Texas, they know better than I do.
The bags are dangling so low to the ground that a midget with polio would be able to jump up and touch them. I tell them that it’s completely unacceptable and that there’s no way they could do this tomorrow. The all head back up the hill, not giving a shit that their food will probably be gone in the morning. I’m dragging my feet at the back of the line when I hear the two kids in front of me talking.
Kid #1: “Damnit, I forgot my toothpaste in my backpack. Do you think that’s a problem?”
Kid #2: “I don’t think so. Mr. Lewis (the aforementioned bumbling fat oaf) said that bears don’t like the smell of peppermint.”
We’re talking about an animal that’s been known to tear apart an outhouse and dig through a pile of shit three feet deep at the mere scent of a bloody tampon. I get in my tent and slip into my sleeping bag. Three seconds later I hear an animal being killed off in the woods. Its shrieking death moans remind me that I have to pick up my paycheck.
It’s two o’ clock in the morning and I’ve just made a very drunken drive back to Base Camp through the Taos pass with Matt. We down three more Sierra Nevadas and bid each other a good nights sleep.
I stumble back in my tent to the sonorous snores of my freak tent mate. His name even sounds like a freak: Austin Fluke. I drop my clothes at the door and climb into bed, my head swimming as it hits the pillow.
I wake up later with an incredible need to piss. I stand up and dip the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs to the appropriate level and have at it. It takes my only a second to realize I’m pissing on Vinyl, and then another second to realize that I’m now pissing on concrete. The fact that I’m still in my tent, however, doesn’t dawn on me until I’m halfway done. I cut it off mid-stream and run outside, where I continue, wondering whether or not I’ve just pissed on my tent mate, with whom I haven’t exchanged three words in almost a month.
Matt and I are sitting in his truck, looking out over the Rio Grande Gorge. We’re listening to Old Crow Medicine Show and drinking lukewarm Rolling Rock. The sun is going down and the desert has been transformed from a dullish brown to a brilliant palate of pink and yellow and blue.
Dan: “I wish you were a chick. This situation is just screaming for us to make out.”
Matt: “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Dan: “You wished you were a chick?”
Matt: “No, asshole.”
Dan: “Good, cause we don’t need this scene to get any gayer.”
Matt: “I know how to make it gayer.” He puts on Coldplay.
Dan: “I think this movie (Pirates of the Caribbean) is gonna be good (it wasn’t).”
Matt: “Me too. I hope it’s not too long though, I have to run the eight o’ clock meeting tomorrow.”
Dan: “I almost didn’t make it to the eight o’ clock last week.”
Matt: “Overslept?”
Dan: “Shit myself.”
Matt: “What?”
Dan: “I shit myself.”
Matt: “Wait. . .explain.”
Dan: “I woke up, sat up in bed, went to fart, and some shit came out.”
Matt: “Are you serious?”
Dan: “As a fucking heart attack.”
Matt: “What did you do?”
Dan: “Well, luckily, my tent mate keeps a roll of toilet paper under his bed.”
Matt: “For jerking off.”
Dan: “Oh, most definitely. So, I took care of everything, threw it all in a plastic bag and tossed it in the dumpster on my way to the meeting.”
Matt: “The underwear too?”
Dan: “Oh, it was bad.”
Matt: “That sucks.”
Dan: “Yeah. But the worst thing was that I had sat there contemplating what to do for a while, and a good deal of it had seeped onto my sheets.”
Matt: “Oh my God.”
Dan: “But I didn’t have time to put them in the laundry, so they had to sit in my hot tent until I was done with my crew that afternoon.”
Matt: “You know Scott Preston?”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Matt: “The same thing happened to him on the trail.”
Dan: “Oh, thank God.”
Matt: “Why?”
Dan: “Well, I mean, I would have felt REALLY foolish if I was the only one.”
It’s one o’ clock in the afternoon and I don’t pick up a bus until two thirty. All my stuff is packed and I’ve already checked my e-mail, so I’m kind of out of stuff to do. I decide to fill in the questionnaire on the back of my Hike-In Form that I so often neglect.
List your weaknesses in the following areas:
1. GENDER ISSUES: “I hate women.”
2. TROUBLE CREW MEMBER: “I carry a wooden paddle for any little sonofabitch that steps out of line.”
LIST YOUR STRENGTHS: “I am the best fucking teacher of bear bag procedures that has ever graced this place. Even Grizzlies quake in my presence.
WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE BAND?: “It’s a tie between ABBA and The Village People.”
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE OFF-SEASON?: “I plan on finding a nice girl and taking her on a drug-addled killing spree through America’s heartland.”
I’m sitting in Logistics with a crew from Mississippi. Most of them have their heads shaved and all of them are looking at me as though I have three eyes. One of them, a fourteen year old with dingy red hair and the goofiest looking smile you’ve ever seen, finally speaks up in a thick southern drawl.
Jessi: “Hey fella, you know you wearin women’s sunglasses?”
Dan: “Yes, Jessi. I’m fully aware.”
Jessi: “You know that’s kinda gay?”
Dan: “Yes, Jessi, I know it’s kinda gay.”
Jessi: “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
(sometime later)
Jessi: “Can we kill a bear?”
Dan: “No.”
Jessi: “Can we kill a squirrel?”
Dan: “No.”
Jessi: “Why not?”
Dan: “Cause there’s a $10000 fine for killing any animal on Phimont property.”
Jessi: “That sucks.”
Dan: “Why would you want to kill anything anyway?”
Jessi: “Cause we’re from Mississippi.”
This was my favorite crew of the summer.
I’m sitting underneath a canopy tent by the parking lot. Rob and Joe are smoking, but I’m just there for the conversation.
Joe: “I say we bust out of here on our next day off and go to Mexico. We could catch a donkey show.”
Rob: “Hell yeah, brother.”
Joe: “Seriously though, how low would you have to feel about yourself to think that fucking a mule is a good way to make a living?”
Rob: “I know, it’s like strippers.”
Joe: “Yeah, man. I mean, why degrade yourself like that?”
Rob: “I’ve been to some good strip clubs though, man.”
Joe: “Oh yeah?”
Rob: “Yeah, man. They’re all over St. Louis.”
Joe: “You’ll have to take me sometime.”
Rob: “I will, man. There’s this one down the street from where I live where they bring out a shower on stage.”
Joe: “Really?”
Rob: “Yeah, man. And three chicks get in there and start goin at it.”
Joe: “A lesbo show!?”
Rob: “Fuck yeah, man. And one chick’s got a suction cup dildo that she sticks to the glass and starts fucking. And it’s glass, too, so you can see all up in that shit.”
He gets up on the picnic table and starts giving a rather visual demonstration in full view of a group of scouts sitting by the health lodge.
Joe: “That’s fucking wild, man.”
Rob: “Yeah, but it’s kind of a bummer since you know they’re not getting off on it.”
Dan’s Inner Monologue: “I gotta write this shit down.”
I walk into the Ranger Office and see Matt sitting at the desk reading “In Cold Blood”. I pound my fist on the desk and demand my paycheck. He pulls it out and I pore over, absolutely torn down by the fact that I’ve been paid $381.09 for twelve consecutive sixteen-hour workdays. Standing next to me is a girl who’s avidly reading some information taped to the desk.
Dan: “Well, free at last! $381! I can finally live.”
Matt: “You could buy yourself some popcorn with that money.”
Dan: “I’ll tell you what that is. That’s coke and hooker money right there.”
The whole office grows quiet immediately. The girl next to me storms out and the guy standing next to me starts cracking up, followed closely by anyone who was within earshot. I became aware that there was something about the situation I wasn’t getting, but Matt was more than willing to fill me in. He leaned in close and pointed to the girl, who was now almost to tent city.
Matt: “That’s Elder Wilson’s daughter. She’s, like, the biggest Mormon here.”
Dan: “Oh, that’s . . .”
Matt: “I know, it’s kinda funny.”
Dan: “No it’s not . . .that’s fucking hilarious.”
Jeff, Sarah, Rob and I are sitting outside of Simple Simon’s Pizza in Cimarron. I was halfway through the pie when I noticed two kids sitting across the way. One was shuffling out cards while the other watched over him, criticizing his every movement. I paid no attention until the kid with the cards exploded in a fit of rage.
Random Simple Simon’s Kid: “Goddamnit, don’t tell me how to play solitaire.”
It’s now my second favorite quote.
I walk into the ranger office to check the schedule for tomorrow morning. I’m picking up a crew at 10:30 and going from Anasazi to Indian Writings, a total hike of about two and a half miles in two days.
I walk over to the clipboard for our training crew, where we can write any questions we have and they’ll be answered by Matt. I take my pen out of my pocket and scribble onto the paper:
Matt,
Why does it burn when I pee? Could this be because of our last trip to Taos? If so, then we need to get in touch with that girl. She said she’s usually hanging around outside the Chevron, so that’d be the best place to look.
Love,
Dan
P.S. Can I borrow “Anchorman”?
I’m sitting in a campsite at Pueblano, listening to my worst crew as they argue over who fucked up their dinner. I’m reading the Philmont Field Guide, an absolutely enthralling encyclopedia of flora and fauna at the Ranch. It says that Woolly Mullein, otherwise known as Lamb’s Ear and is frequently seen growing in the area, was once dried and smoked by Native Americans in order to relieve mental imbalance.
Well, I know something similar that I smoke to cure my mental imbalance, but it sure as shit ain’t growing in abundance only three feet away from where I’m sitting. Instantly, visions of massive piles of money strewn about my apartment from the sale of this stuff started flowing into my head.
The next day I picked a few leaves on my hike to the turnaround and put them on the top of my pack to dry out. That night I jumped in the car, rolled a nice fat J and smoked it. It smelled like pot, but I didn’t feel high. But, then again, a very scarcely get that feeling any more. I was midway to the Shell station in Springer when I noticed a bright red haze on the horizon. A few minutes later, the biggest moon I’d ever seen was rising blood red what seemed like thirty feet in front of me. I locked my arms on the steering wheel, turned around, went back to camp, and fell asleep with this awful hallucination still haunting me.
I woke up the next morning reeling from what I had seen and all excited about my future business prospects. I met up with my crew for breakfast and was disappointed.
Rick: “Did you see that moonrise last night? It was wild.”
Dan: “You saw that too?”
Rick: “I have eyes, don’t I?”
There go my millions.
I have the next three days off, and I’m sitting in our family’s townhouse in the Quirky (Albuquerque, for those of you who aren’t in the know). I have my laptop on, surfing the Internet when I get an IM from Braddy.
Braddy: “Dan?”
Dan: “Brad?”
Braddy: “I want to come to New York for Halloween.”
Dan: “Sick. Let’s do it.”
Braddy: “Yeah. And we can dress up as Hitler and Stalin and march in the parade.”
Dan: “Fuck yeah! One thing though . . .”
Braddy: “What?”
Dan: “I wanna be Hitler.”
Braddy: “Goddamnit, I wanna be Hitler.”
Dan: “No way.”
Braddy: “Fine. But we need a Jew.”
Dan: “Oh, don’t worry, we can use Ben.”
I’m standing in line at Wal-Mart behind a woman with her horde of children. They’re all screaming and crying and it’s all I can do not to bash her over the head with my soon to be purchased copy of “O’ Brother, Where Art Thou?”. I look down at the magazine rack to find the latest copy of people magazine. The headline is a blazing purple typeset that stings the eye just to look at it and announces proudly: I’M GAY! Staring back at me is Lance Bass, making a face that looks like he should be lying on satin sheets with his head rolled back and his legs up in the air with a burly leather-clad man that’s all smiles. After my initial gasp of shock, I literally exclaim:
Dan: “I HAVE to call Steven!”
Woman in Front of Me: “Who’s Steven?”
Unfortunately, his phone isn’t accepting calls right now. Too bad, considering he’s probably the only person who would understand that this is bigger news than Israel declaring war on Lebanon.
I’m sitting in my tent and the sun has just gone down. I’ve spent the day eating Oreos dipped in Peanut Butter and reading the National Enquirer. I’ve watched the entire third season of “Reno 911” and “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”, so naturally, I’m worn out from laughing. I decide to get some real food. I jump in my car and drive a 100 miles to the nearest Sonic. I order my usual “Day Off Special”, which consists of the Bacon Cheddar Cheese Burger Toaster with Tots and a large cherry limeade.
As I’m waiting for my food, the speaker box blares out at me once more.
Girl: “Hey.”
Dan: “Hello?”
Girl: “My friend thinks you’re really hot.”
Dan: “Oh . . .okay.”
Girl: “She says you’re gorgeous.”
Dan: “Well, thank you.”
Girl: “What’s your name?”
Dan: “Frank.”
Girl: “How old are you?”
Dan: “23.”
Girl: “Where are you from?”
Dan: “Florida.”
Girl: “Wow, that’s far away.”
Dan: “”It is.”
A twenty-year-old Mexican man steps out from the inside with my order.
Man: “Hey homeboy, she’s working drive-through tonight, so just drive on up when you’re done, okay?”
Dan: “Um . . .okay.”
I sit there eating my food and make up my mind to do it. I’m not really interested, but since it’s been a little while since I’ve had a face-to-face with any chick that wasn’t a beast, I might as well. I drive around to find her standing there with her cell phone. She’s fat, and that’s all that needs to be said. Of course, it would be rude to not stop and at least have a word, and we all know how much I hate to be rude (sarcasm).
Fatty: “Hi.”
Dan: “Hi.”
Fatty: “So you’re from Florida?”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Fatty: “Do you think the beach there is better than California?”
Dan: “I don’t really like the beach, but yes, I do.”
Fatty: “You fucking liar.”
I may not be much of a flirt, but I do know that having someone call you a fucking liar is not much of a turn on, and this bitch doesn’t have a very large margin of error.
Fatty: “What are you doing in this place?”
Dan: “I was down in Mexico, and now I’m heading up to Albuquerque and then back home.”
Fatty: “That’s too bad. What are those bands on your wrists?”
She’s talking about the blue bracelet I wear on my left wrist from when I had my upper endoscope in May. For those of you who don’t know, it’s where they take a camera, shove it down your throat, and look around to see what’s wrong with the inside of your stomach. And no, they never found anything.
Dan: “It’s from the hospital.”
Fatty: “Were you sick?”
Dan: “Sort of.”
Fatty: “What was wrong with you?”
Dan: “I was in a mental institution for two weeks.”
Fatty: “Whoa . . .what for?”
Dan: “I’d rather not discuss it.”
Fatty: “Wow . . .uh . . .”
Dan: “Well, I have to go. It was very nice talking to you. What was your name?”
Fatty: “Uh . . .Meghan.”
Dan: “Well, Meghan, I hope the divine will of God helps you to find peace. Jesus Loves!”
I drive off down the road and stop at a gas station. I get out and begin to pump gas. I’m hit with a nervous spasm. It’s the first I’ve had since I’ve been here and it’s by far the worst I’ve ever had. I’m shaking so badly that I can’t keep my hand on the pump. I grab it with both hands and place it back into the machine, spilling gas all over the place in the process. I somehow manage to unlock the doors, and when I sit down in the driver’s seat is when the worst of it hits. I twitch violently in my chair and can’t control my breathing anymore. I can’t seem to make my eyes blink, and tears are welling up to where I can’t see either. I try to turn the car on to drive away, but I drop the keys and can’t make myself bend over to pick them up. This goes on for five minutes and I pant and I scream and I start to cry.
It’s eighty-one degrees outside.
Another day off that’s seemed to have dragged on for an eternity. I wake up at nine because you can’t really sleep in since it gets too hot. I start reading “Breakfast of Champions” by Kurt Vonnegut. I’m done with it in three hours. I’d like to think I’m like the eccentric writer in the book, but I think I’m leaning more towards the Pontiac Salesman who dives into insanity and goes on a rampage in the end.
I take out my laptop and start writing. I write almost nine pages and I’m about to go into my tenth. I’ve been writing for hours and it feels like I’m not really saying anything.
I take a break. I go to the smoker’s tent and bum my fifth cigarette of the summer from Rob. The girl from services is there, sitting backwards on the picnic table, not facing anybody. The conversation goes on and she’s staring off into the woods. It starts to rain. A little at first and then a deluge within minutes. The water in the air makes her short black hair cling to her face and the smoke from her cigarette lingers in the air far longer than it should. She stares off into the rain.
She is beautiful.
I want to say something to her. I wanna ask her if she’ll tell on me if I keep my tent for just another crew before turning it back in. I wanna ask her where she goes when she gets off of work. I wanna ask her what the fuck she’s doing here. Why something so gorgeous would opt to spend her summer sitting behind a desk being harassed by teenaged boys and middle-aged men. I wanna tell her that the best part of this job is walking past where she works and hoping to catch a glimpse of her there; washing pots or checking tents or absentmindedly doodling those breathtaking portraits that she hangs on the wall. I wanna tell her everything.
But I can’t.
I just sit there.
Someone says something and another part of me makes some stupid quip and she turns around to face me. She gives me a look of faint recognition. It’s like when you walk into a room and you know you’ve been there but it’s been so long that you can’t remember when. I catch her eyes by accident. They’re deep, and brown. They’re a little darker than her skin, which is now moist and gleaming like a finely polished bar top. Our eyes are locked and I’m screaming on the inside to say something else, to keep her with me for one more second. But she’s already talking to me with her eyes. The glint of recognition is still there. It says, “I know you. We’re in the same boat. We’ve both got other places to be, but we don’t know if we can go back there.” Those eyes are begging for me to say something. Anything.
But I can’t.
I can’t even keep looking at her.
It’s been a second that’s lasted an hour and now my eyes are back on the wood of the picnic table, and she’s turned back around on the bench.
Staring off into the rain.
I walk away. I don’t have a rain jacket and it’s still coming down, but I walk away all the same.
I walk a half-mile to the back of the parking lot. There’s an old oak tree there, and a little murky stream that hugs it constantly. I sit down under that tree and look out at the mesa on the horizon and the horses on the field and the hundred other oaks that line the road to here. I’m drenched.
My time here in nearly up, and I have to decide what I’m going to do. I’ve told my dad that I’d be going back home, but there’s nothing drawing me back there. Chelsea’s offered to fly me to LA to spend a few weeks with her, so I could do that. But that’s LA, and I hate LA.
I look out along the road that hugs the Villa Philmonte and I see a white van idling steadily away from this place. I could do that. I could leave here and drive to Albuquerque. I could spend a few days with my dad, as he deserves better than I’ve been giving him. Then I could keep driving. I could blast through Colorado and Oklahoma and be in Chicago in twenty hours. I could meet up with Ben and we could go to Lollapalooza. Then we could grab Walker and drive back to Ohio. And then up through Pennsylvania and straight on into New England. I could drive to Boston and see Steven. From there I could go to Albany. Put the car on the Amtrak and myself on the MTA and be back in the city before classes started on the third.
But why go north? Why go back at all? Maybe I should leave this place. Take the beetle on down to Mexico. I could drive and drive until I hit the end of the continent or my summer’s earnings ran out, whichever came first. Does it really matter whether it’s two thousand miles to the east or the north or the south?
I have to do something. I have to find that voice that failed me at the smoker’s tent. I have so much to say and it wouldn’t take anything at all to say it.
But I know none of this is gonna happen. I might not go home, but I’m sure as shit not gonna work up the nerve to drive through Mexico. I probably won’t even find my voice, and end up back in the same position that’s making me so miserable. Maybe the situation will change. But probably not. Maybe I’ll change.
I have no idea, but I’m trying to flexible.
P.S. Could this song be any better? The answer is yes, but I'm digging it for the time being.