Raymond Carver Festival Suite

 

                                        Raymond Carver Festival Suite

Ray—

hello from Clatskenie Oregon w/sunshine + cool breeze coming up the Columbia River where I/m tired + my back aches still but here to celebrate you this weekend w/a writing festival in yr name organized by the Clatskenie Arts Foundation—who wouldve thunk you/d be driving the economy here in yr home town for a few days among all the closed-up restaurants + bars—only Colvins still going tho not sure if it was around when you lived here decades ago its been decades since I read you—just about two ago when I went thru a second go-thru of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love in Jackson Hole Wyoming one summer on the helitack crew there helirappel actually sliding down a rope out of a helicopter to get to fires tho I think we only really did it once but was something I/d wanted to try + liked b/c every rappel was terrifying tho you learn to trust the equipment if not he people but re-finding you in a used bookstore there—I think the first time was back in college Michigan State on my own when I was already reading lots all the time but following you down from the Hemingway line of minimalism tho was always interesting to think about how some people claimed yr style was actually yr editors style—that he stripped you down took away yr adverbs adjectives which sounds like a good editor to me tho also read somewhere way back that you resented it + yr later stuff has more something that I like the earlier stuff so I dont know but I think Susan Sontag is right that (in prose at least?) style is content vs the poetry ‘form is content/content form’ exchange in which case was yr content taken from you b/c I recently had a minor similar happenstance of a lit mag taking a story of mine enthusiastically then an ‘assigned’ editor The New Yorker-ized it but what was I gonna do? say no? even tho neither of us was getting paid?

II

following the Clatskenie River curving thru town making its way north to flow into the Columbia tho doesnt feel like the coast here yet—more like a nestled farm valley among forest hills sitting on a picnic table hoping I dont get attacked by the weird-colored ducks snoozing around—those hills state forest so third or fourth growth stands single-species + too thick to walk thru tho I think theres a path nearby trying to absorb as much sun as I can to get rid of this minor cough I got at my sisters b/c children are vectors of disease while I keep waiting for the the working class to rise up w/guillotines but everyones on screens—I/d like to hang out in a bar w/o tvs w/you talk about Hemingway + Pushcarts + women + the rain

“Yes, work. The going
to what lasts.”

III

noted: Clatskenie actually ends w/an ai sound

the festival in yr honor started this morning at the Birkenfeld theater just the hill w/a scrum of people looking at books for sale eating cake which I immediately had to leave for my sanity— two readings by two poets the first of whom was great—Marj Hogan—keeping to the theme‚yr theme—or work—the second of whom didnt seem to understand how microphones work but ok—out of the theater into the sunshine down to the farmers market which has nothing I want—no fruit or banana bread or nada—pull up another picnic table at the river away from people—I may have only read you after I saw the movie Shortcuts directed by Robert Altman based some of yr short stories (and which I have learned you helped with the screenplay!) which I liked—the disjointedness of doing that as a film—same thing w/Larry Browns Big Bad Love later on directed by Arliss Howard + I was always interested in how you never wrote a novel which someone —maybe you but I cant remember—said came from having a job and a family and only time to write short texts which makes sense but also could just be that you liked short texts + that was only ever what was going to come out tho novels are where the money is or they were + getting a creative writing teaching gig was easier back then tho I bet you taught composition at some point too + I/m at the point where if I were to go back to teaching comp I/d just treat them as creative writing classes—just like the writer Janet Kauffman told me long ago + I kind of did anyway—at least using creative narrative essays (like Abbey and Bukowski whom I/m sure you also liked) while throwing poems in as ways to make writing fun or at least engaging or at least not painful to my students but now AI looms over every class so that teachers are going back to in-class essays in blue books which defeats the idea of writing as a process so I just watch for fires instead

IV

what took me a while to appreciate was your wife Tess Gallagher—fine writer in her own right who didnt really peak until you were gone but the festival reinforced + esp added to my idea of how special a couple you both were—two poets in synch living a life of maybe voluntary poverty not to mention she got you off the juice giving you ten more years of sober creativity—she was here—topped off a reading up at ‘The Castle’ in the afternoon which we all huffed up to in the sun tho I/d/ve rather they just did it back at the theater—writers shouldnt be mucking around in rich peoples houses but she was great enthusiastic energetic funny—we would have all just loved to listen to her between-poem stories + I love especially the story about you two in the program notes about driving through town here stopping in the Safeway parking lot deciding to give an impromptu poetry reading standing up through the car moonroof reading poems to whomever would listen—a similar ritual happens a the festival at the endish of the day where we all gathered in the alley where theres a huge mural of you so that Tess could stand up thru someones moonroof and which were all great. I thought you/d want to know that the last one was yr Late Fragment about wanting to be beloved + Tess + many in the audience recited it by heart

V

the mural including this quote from you:

I’ll take all the time I please this afternoon

before leaving my place alongside this river

also a small sculpture in the park across from the library w/yr picture + the great quote (from a woman character)—Will you please be quiet, please!—which should be my motto + which was also on the back of festival t-shirts: you have merch! or youre on merch! I cant imagine my hometown of Jackson Michigan ever having a sculpture or statue or picture or mural of me but if they do it should be me flipping them off—that would be satisfying but at 57 now looking like I/ll be ending my days in blessed obscurity tho still publish individual pieces in lit mags here + there—still no Pushcart alas b/c I remember the anecdote of when you got in the Pushcart Prize anthology you slept w/the book under yr pillow tho I dont think the current editors would like yr stuff anymore—its all ‘language’ poetry and The New Yorker stories (which are no longer Raymond Carver The New Yorker stories) but oh well we write for the process yes? but I/m not inclined to write novels anymore—wrote seven over the decades which were challenging + interesting but not inclined to spend that much time + effort anymore unless of course I get the inspiration for something different to try for the curiosity of it—I dont know the last one I wrote because the ghost of singer Dawn Crosby came in my dreams three nights in a row asking me to do it—you cant deny ghosts but the Big Four or Three wouldnt want it + lit agents dont want it + the indie presses publish their friends

VI

all the poetry I heard at the festival was good if not great + the type which exists outside of academia + The New Yorker or even Harper’s which traces a line down from Whitman Williams Bishop the Beats + maybe Bukowski + definitely Mary Oliver in a melange of lyric-for-the-individual singing for + sharing wisdom rather than being clever tho clever can include humor + you were the only one w/a sense of humor + a sense of wisdom + I suppose this is what regional poetry is—anything outside of New York or San Francisco + you are from the Pacific Northwest—not sure you spent much time away from it tho also rooted in the working class tho the working class when they tolerate poetry at all only tolerate what they can understand while academic poetry since the 90s has always been about breaking apart sense ostensibly to break about the language of the oppressor but all they leave behind is Babel but yes nothing more cringy than a poet trying to wise tho when it works it works—WS Merwin—I dont know if I consider myself a PNW poet—I/ve lived off + on in Oregon for fifteen years now but still feel like a Michigander somehow to my embarrassment tho when the poetry transcends like yrs you becomes a national treasure (international even) even as not even yr stories get discussed in MFA programs much less undergrad + if Sontag is right + style is content what does this say that yr style is rejected even as all New Yorkers would still claim to like Chekhov who was yr main influence but for example at the festival there was a young man—20—from Clatskenie who was introducing the afternoon poets who told all us adults how much yr writing (style?) had shaped him as a writer + person + again all those people some of them youngsters—who recited yr beloved Fragment from heart about wanting to be beloved—we live in a lonely country but all this writing just to tell you that you are

 

 

The Audition—short story

My story "The Audition" appeared, in print, in NORTH DAKOTA QUARTERLY Vol. 91 Nos. 3/4. Fall 2024. 

 

My chances were not good, even if I hadn’t been a girl—The Very Famous Metal Band had their choice of bass players to replace Cole, who had died when their tour bus crashed and rolled on an icy road in Germany only two months before. To replace him so soon seemed crazy and caught everyone in the music scene—at least where I was, in LA—by shock. But word got out that their management company was accepting demos, so I thought, why not? What have I got to lose? And why not me: huge fan of The Very Famous Metal Band, and Cole in particular—the oldest and maybe least conventionally good-looking of the four, with his skeletal jaw bones and greasy brown hair, but maybe the best musician overall. Each of their three albums featured a bass solo by him, and the one on the first album really made people notice. I think most non-musician metalheads actually know what a bass guitar or a bass player is because of Cole. I’d memorized all three of their albums, played along to them in my room back in Brighton, Michigan, over and over. I cried when Mike, my boyfriend, told me about Cole dying.

I sent the management company a copy of my band Witchhunt’s CD, Coven of Sisters, which I’m still proud of, even if we recorded it in a week in a cheap basement studio. And, I guess, they couldn’t tell I was female: my name, Kris, being gender-ambiguous and in our band photo I’m not the shortest one, my hair looks as matted as all the guys, with my face half-covered anyways, and I’ve never worn make-up. I’m wearing jeans and a jean jacket just like everyone else in the 80s LA thrash metal scene. And, amazingly, I got the call to fly up to San Francisco and try out.

I don’t know about anybody else who came that day, but I had to pay my way—Southwest airlines ticket and two nights at a pricey hotel near the band’s rehearsal studio, and the taxi fare both ways—a whole month’s wages at Cafe Sole where I worked, basically. But I paid it. Opportunity of a lifetime.

The taxi dropped me off at the main gate of a complex of grey metal warehouses in an industrial part of town. Sky of course overcast—I didn’t even know which way the ocean was, though I could smell it, and there was still fog that morning, the air almost cold, which sucked because that made my hands cold, which meant I couldn’t really play fast with my right-hand fingers until I warmed up, and I wasn’t sure how much warm-up time I’d get. But I presented myself to the security guard at the main gate, who checked his list and let me in. Outside the building a few dudes were smoking—not the band, and not anyone I recognized, though they all had long hair—either my rivals or roadies? But who should be coming out the main door but Travis Gibbs, from Musicians Institute back down in LA. He graduated 1986, the year before me, but had still worked at the library, second shift, so I saw him all the time. He even asked me out once, which I politely deflected. It had been almost two years. He saw me and his face lit up.

“Kris! Holy shit! What are you doing here?! Are you still in LA?”

We didn’t hug. We weren’t like, actual friends.

“Yeah, I’m still in LA, man. My band headlined the Troubadour last month.”

“No shit!”

“What are you up to? Who you playing with?”

“Nobody right now.”

“Did you try out already?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t think Josh was into me. I mean, I played good.”

Josh was the lead singer/rhythm guitarist for The Very Famous Metal Band.

“Were you first?”

“No! That’s the crazy thing. They’re auditioning guys all day! I’m just going to go get drunk now and try not to throw up.”

“OK, well, come see my band sometime!”

He gave me a thumbs up.

“All right. I’ll see you around.”

Carrying an electric bass in a hardshell case while trying to get through a metal door is awkward. I should have brought my gig bag, but I didn’t have room on the plane, really—so I don’t think I looked too professional forcing my way in and banging my knee. Inside the small carpeted room ran a row of black plastic chairs along one wall, with one dude, obviously a fellow bass player, sitting with his case leaning against his legs. He stared at me. Three women in their thirties sat behind a long table, with big metal double-doors behind them. They had been talking and laughing, but my klutzy entrance pulled their attention for a second. Loud heavy music muffle-pounded through the wall: someone else’s big audition.

I walked to the table and had to talk a little loud.

“Hi! I’m here for the audition!”

The middle woman, who was dressed more professionally, with an actual white blouse and skirt, smiled politely.

“Your boyfriend’s making you carry his bass? Are you going to play for him too?”

“No! I mean, I’m auditioning! I’m Kris Wells!”

All of their eyes bugged. The middle one said, “Oh. OK. Wow. Cool. I mean, very cool!

The one on the left added, “Hella cool!”

The middle one continued, “I didn’t know they were auditioning any girls. But yeah, I have you down here.”

She pointed to some kind of list or chart on a clipboard.

“We’re running late, of course, so you might have to wait a bit. When they’re ready, I’ll call you and send you in.” She pointed behind her at the double doors. “Someone from the crew will help you set up. There’s an amp and chord. You’re the last one before lunch.”

“Is that good?”

“Who knows? But, might be forty-five minutes.”

I thanked her and dragged my case over to the seats. The dude was wearing a black beat-up cowboy hat. Black beard. Super skinny. I did hate that about the metal scene: most of the guys were skinnier than me.

I nodded to him. “Hey.”

He nodded back. “Hey.

At least he didn’t seem hostile toward me for being his competition.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I sat down. I guess he had to keep going though. He bent forward a little.

“You really play bass?”

I got that a lot, believe me, but given the context, the question seemed even more stupid than usual. Men don’t have to look or sound hostile to be hostile. I nodded though, trying to be polite, but couldn’t help saying, “Yes, I really do play bass.”

“You in a band?”

“Yep. Witchhunt. From LA.”

“Oh, OK. I’ve heard of them.”

“How about you?”

“I’m in Godshell. We’re from here. We’ve played down in LA a few times though.”

I couldn’t help it. Hostility recognizes hostility.

“Oh, yeah. I always wondered if it was pronounced like Gods Hell or like shell.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Is your boyfriend in your band?”

I mean, Mike was, but I didn’t like the question, so I said, “Why?”

“I don’t know. Does he know you’re up here?”

“Actually, yeah, he does.”

In fact, Mike didn’t like me coming up to audition for The Very Famous Metal Band. He said it was stupid, useless, a waste of money. Things had been rocky between us for maybe the whole previous six months—as if the better Witchhunt did, the worse we did. Mike was maybe suffering from LSD—Lead Singer’s Disease—though he was a good singer. Not like operatic, but good and growly. He wrote most of the music and all of the lyrics. I’d been his girlfriend before his bass player—the last one left, I was right there. I wanted to play and I liked Witchhunt, so he let me in. I didn’t have a problem with the other two guys—Roberto and Pete—always thought we got along great, but as Mike and I were butting heads, they were siding with him. The night before I left for San Francisco, he even gave me an ultimatum. “If you go up there, that means you don’t want to be in this band.” Or it might have been an accusation.

“Mike, I have to do this. You’d do the same thing if some band was looking for a singer.”

“No, Kris, I would not. This is my band, and right now you’re fucking it up.”

“So you think I’ll get it?”

“No. Of course not.”

I teared up. “Then why do you care?”

“Because it’s disrespectful.”

“To who?”

“To us. To the band.”

“You mean your band?”

“To the band.”

“You’re just scared I might actually get it!”

That drove him out of the apartment. He was supposed to drive me to the airport the next day too. I took a Super Shuttle. So I wasn’t sure I would even be in Witchhunt when I got back. Or if I wanted to be.

The music—or, the rumbling in the walls—stopped, then started again. Or maybe it was a pause. To the immediate right was a long hallway leading off into, or maybe around, the warehouse. I spotted a bathroom sign and asked the women to watch my bass for me. I had to go. I’d had to go on the taxi ride over, but now that I was actually here, in the building, with The Very Famous Metal Band playing on the other side of the wall, my guts were churning.

I sat there trying to breathe, to calm myself. Which helped. I splashed water on my face at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror—pale and scared. I made a mental note to keep that detail for a song about a witch being burned at the stake. Normally I’d have my notebook and would have scribbled something down. Not that anyone ever used my lyrics, not then anyways.

Feeling better though, I dried my face with a paper tower and walked out into the hallway, staring out the large window at the parking lot I’d just walked across. Travis was gone. The Smoking Guys seemed like different guys smoking, but I wasn’t sure. Metalhead dudes all looked alike. A door opened far down the hallway and another longhaired guy walked toward me. Tall, brown curly hair, super lean face—holy shit! It was Jordan Roberts from Torre Oscuro! I knew him. Or, knew who he was. They were from Phoenix. I’d seen them play in LA, and their first album, Mákina, was great. They were the next new thing. And Jordan was the main songwriter. One song, “Tiburón,” had a hellacool bass break in the middle. He played with a pick, which all the bass players at Musicians Institute would have mocked, but he was still good. Fast.

I blurted out, “Jordan!”

He looked at me as he walked closer. “Hey.”

When he got close, I said, “Are you auditioning?”

He nodded.

“When do you go?”

I was thinking he might be before me, in which case I was truly fucked, but no.

“I don’t go until later. I’m last.”

“What are you doing here so early?”

He shrugged. “The guys asked me to. I’m just kinda checking out the competition, watching what they do wrong. It’s interesting. Is your boyfriend trying out? Or do you work here?”

My body physically slumped a little. “No. I’m auditioning too.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Really?”

I looked down at the floor. “Yes. Really.”

“Oh. Well, OK. I didn’t know they were trying out any girls. But, I mean, good luck!”

I still smiled, and looked up again. “Thanks. Hey, I really like your playing. ‘Tiburón’ is hellagood.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you in there.”

He lifted his left hand in a halfwave and turned and went into the men’s room. I stood there a second, almost maybe to wait and talk more when he came out, but that felt really stalky. He didn’t want to talk to me anyways.

It wasn’t until I started moving that I realized what Jordan said meant. He was it, he was their choice. They invited him, for fuck’s sake. So what was this all for? For show? Or were they still open to being blown away by someone? I doubted it, since everyone knew Jordan was a great bass player. Actually kind of shitty of them—for him, and for the rest of us—to even have other people and have him watch all day, in my opinion, though he didn’t seem to mind.

So shit. That was my answer. I mean, I knew I didn’t have a chance, but here it was, confirmed. The tears came, but I fought them off. I would not cry like a girl and give everyone the satisfaction. I would not. Fortunately, I was angry too. I thought about just leaving, I almost really did just go. But I took a breath, looking out at the parking lot. Of course it had started to rain. I really could have used some sunshine now. But I let my breath out, slowly, and rose into the magical realm of not giving a fuck. I didn’t want to prove myself. OK, I did. But I thought, I’m here. I’m going to play with The Very Famous Metal Band. I will play one song with them, with my idols whom I was starting to think of as assholes. I somehow thought about Cole, doing it for him too, for my real idol. Maybe he would be laughing at me—a girl—too. I’d like to think not. But anyways, fuck it.

There was a cooler of water bottles next to the table. I took one and pounded it, and sat down. The Bearded Dude was gone. The walls vibrated again.

I got out Red Sonja to warm up. She’s a red Fender Precision that I bought used off a punk dude in Ann Arbor for like a hundred and fifty bucks. Total score. She had served me well for years, in my band back in Michigan, and at Musicians Institute and all the minor bands in LA. I sometimes talked out loud to her, though not now. OK, amiga, this is it. We won’t get the gig, but we’re here, we made it to the auditions. All we can do is play our best and show The Very Important Metal Band what we got. Make them remember us.

I really wanted to exercise my right-hand fingers, loosen them up, which really meant just holding one note and picking a steady sixteenth-note rhythm. But that felt stupid. Or, I felt stupid doing that in front of the women, who weren’t really paying attention, though glancing over now and then. I felt like I should be running scales, showing off my chops. Which was stupid. So I did a combo, running scales then holding a rhythm for a while.

The music stopped and the woman in the middle got up and went through the doors. I put Sonja away in her case and stood. The woman came back in and smiled.

“OK, Kris, you’re up! Good luck!”

The woman on the left was smiling, but the one on the right had a scowl to scowl all scowls. Well, fuck that bitch.

I walked through into a huge hanger-like room. High ceiling, with amps and PA speakers and guitar cases all around the edges. I guess I’d expected some kind of stage, but the band was set up right in the middle. Everyone in the whole room, the band and the various roadies and onlookers, all did a double-take when I came in. I mean, they stared. I felt very very small and alone. The guys in the band were all at least five years older than me. This was a bad idea. Who the hell was I?

The two guitarists had their guitars off, standing in front of the drums. The drummer, Lucas, was standing, drinking a beer. I’d heard that this was in fact The Very Famous Alcoholic Metal Band. A really tall oily dude in cut-off Mötorhead t-shirt with reeking armpits came up to me and held out his hand.

“Kris? How’s it going? I didn’t know you were a girl! Come on over and I’ll get you set up.”

He led me over to the bass amp, an Ampeg, with the refrigerator-like speakers, to the right of the drums. The guys in the band stared at me. I forced a smile. “Hi. I’m Kris.”

Josh, the singer, had cut his hair since the last promo pic I’d seen of him, rocking a full-on blonde mullet. See, if I was in the band, I would have advised him not to do that. They needed me. But he was tall and skinny, they all were. Rugged. Angry-looking. But hell, his best friend had died two months ago. I would be too. He wore a black Primus t-shirt with the arms cut off, veins bulging in his wiry arms. He actually spoke to me: “What’s up?”

Lucas, with his round baby-fat face, raised his beer with a monster-thick arm and smirked and spoke in a slight Quebecois accent. “Hey, how ya doing?”

Alejandro, the lead guitarist, smiled, and at least said, “Hey, welcome!”

I wanted to talk to them, but Oily Roadie held out a chord. “Here, you can plug in with this. Adjust the amp how you want. Just don’t crank it at first, Josh doesn’t like that. Do you need any pedals or effects or anything?”

“I brought my own.”

He paused, surprised. “OK, cool. Nobody else has so far.”

I put the case down and got out my RAT distortion pedal. The song I was auditioning with, “I Die on This Hill,” was from the second album, and had Cole playing a distorted intro melody over the guitars, so I made sure the volume was boosted. I liked my RAT for doing bass breaks too—it added some grunge and sustain without losing any bottom. I plugged Oily Roadie’s chord into the pedal and he grabbed me another one to run to Sonja. The Ampeg EQ knobs were dialed to boost the real lows. Cole’s sound had always been to boost the mids, which I’d gotten from him. I asked Oily if that was the sound they wanted.

He shook his head fast. “No, ma’am, not necessarily. This was what the last guy set it for.”

I adjusted it, turning my volume up a little, just to get some sense of it, even if it would sound different when I cranked it.

I looked around. The band guys were all still talking, joking. There were more people, men, around the edges. More roadies, I guess, which made me realize how huge of an organization the band was. A business. Two men in suits sat over in one corner. Management? Movement over in one dark corner: Jordan, sitting and leaning back on some PA speakers. Staring at me. I nodded, but either he didn’t see it, or didn’t acknowledge it. OK, fine.

I walked over and stepped on the RAT. The low thumps from my strings became low buzzes, like hornets. The band guys all turned their heads. I wasn’t sure if Josh was annoyed or not—he seemed to have a perpetual frown.

I fiddled a bit, taking off the RAT and running my right-hand finger through some triplets. “I Die on This Hill” is actually one of their slower, doomier songs—nothing fast, but I wanted to be ready.

And there was Alejandro in front of me. “Hey!”

He fist-bumped me. “You about ready? Just let us know. Thanks for coming out! You from LA? What band are you in? You know what song we’re playing, right? You know the song? What was your name again?”

“Thank you, Alejandro. I’m Kris. I’m in Witchhunt.”

“Yeah! Thats right! I don’t remember any of the demo tapes! We must have liked you though! I gotta say, I didn’t know you were a girl! That’s cool though!”

“Um, thanks. I guess I’m ready. I don’t want to keep you guys.”

“Oh, no worries. Hey, Josh! She’s ready!”

Alejandro walked over and the both of them slipped on their guitars. Lucas sat down, twirling his sticks and looking at me. The guitarists turned up their volumes, and they were LOUD. OK. I turned up Sonja to about three-quarters, then the Ampeg master volume. If I was going out, I’d go out loud too. Oily Dude stood right by the amp, which I didn’t like, but fuck it, roll with it, Kris.

Josh walked over. “You know the song?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Josh. I mean, I know it. I know all your songs.”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Well, here we go.”

He walked over to his mic stand. I stepped on the RAT, which caused my amp to squeal. Then I remembered: “I Die on This Hill” actually comes in on the three, so was it going to be a four-count? Or a two-count? I raised my hand like a little schoolgirl. “Excuse me. Josh? Or, Lucas?”

They looked at me, annoyed. Josh said, “Yeah?”

“You guys do a two-count and come in on three? Or do a regular four count? Just, because—you know—the intro starts on three?

Josh stared at me blankly. Lucas chuckled. Alejandro spoke. “It’s a four-count! That actually happened earlier, someone came in early! So it’s actually a good question!”

Lucas raised his right hand, drumstick high. “Ready? One! Two! Three! Four!”

I watched him and thudded the G in lock with his floor toms for those first two beats, along with the guitars. Then on the one I hit the low E string and let it ring while the guitars did ringing power chords, and I slid up to play the chromatic melody starting on the twenty-second fret of the G string, the high D, while Lucas continued the war drums on the low toms.

The bass melody repeated while Lucas changed into a standard quarter-note beat. After a repeat, I punched off the RAT and began the low chromatic riff under the still ringing distorted E chords, trying to lock in with Lucas, who wouldn’t look at me. But I concentrated on his bass drum and hi-hat, getting into the groove.

Then—the best part of the song—the guitars joined in with me on the chromatic riff and that was it—I was jamming with The Very Famous Metal Band on one of their most famous riffs. I didn’t need to force myself to bang my head—it happened naturally. And I swear, Josh and Alejandro even banged—or at least nodded—their heads a little.

That intro was the hardest part of the song. As Josh came in with his vocals, I mostly just had to make sure I didn’t fuck up the chord changes, though there were a couple times when I got to go high again for some quick squirrely fills. Just like Cole.

On the album the song fades out, so I watched and waited for whatever they wanted, which ended up being a long chaos on the low E while Lucas did a long megafill on the high toms down to the low. I allowed myself a quick little pentatonic run up to the high E and back down before catching the last big slam on the low E.

I watched them. Josh gave an actual small nod and briefly smiled. Lucas still didn’t look at me, but he smiled at the other two. Alejandro gave me a thumbs up. They gathered by the drums. Oily was looking at them to see if he should signal to me. I went for it. “Hey, Josh?”

He looked over, surprised. Or annoyed.

Fuck it. I kept going. “Hey. I know you guys have been playing the same song all day. I know all your songs. I was wondering if it would be possible if we could do ‘Steppes of Tor’? It’s my favorite.”

He kind of processed that for a few seconds, then turned and tilted his head at the other guys. Alejandro was enthusiastic. “Yeah. man, let’s do it! Break things up!”

Lucas gave a shrug. Josh walked over to his mic and spoke into it. “OK. One more song.”

I didn’t have the nerve to ask how they started it, since the intro riff is in a very loose 3/4. But I just watched Lucas and he did a quick four-count and we were in. They played it faster than on the album, but I kept up, barely. The only thing I regret is not having a mic, so I couldn’t join in on the “Die! Die! Die!” chant in the halftime middle section. But you can believe I was yelling it anyway. Two of the roadies ran over and football-chorused into Alejandro’s mic, which was cool. And fun. I was having fun with The Very Famous Metal Band.

The song ended and Josh and Alejandro took off their guitars, handing them to roadies. Josh looked at me and said, “Good job, kid.” Then he yelled, “Lunch!”

He and Lucas walked off, laughing.

Alejandro came over and fist-bumped me again. “Thanks! Kris, right? Good job! I’m glad we could do another song! I think Josh liked you! Good jamming with you though! Maybe I’ll see you around!”

He walked off. Oily turned off the amp. All the men made their way to the back entrance. I stood a second, my head ringing, thinking, I nailed that. They should pick me.

They never even called. They took Jordan on a short tour of Japan, then offered him the job for reals. In a twist, Torre Oscuro ended up offering Travis the gig with them. No audition. I came back to my stuff all packed by the door, with a note from Mike saying we were over and I was out of the band. The fucker even had to keep the apartment. But I didn’t care. I was going to leave anyways. I’d done it. I’d done more than most. I’d earned respect, as much as I could get. And, lost respect for my heroes. I never bought another album by The Very Famous Metal Band, they got shittier and shitter, though I did listen to the first one with Jordan, Lock & Load. And you couldn’t even hear him—they buried the bass in the mix—everyone talked about that, and how badly the guys ended up treating him. Like, for years.

Me? I started my own damn band.

 

Dolphins—short story

My short story "Dolphins" now up at EXPAT PRESS! I submitted it last night and they put it up this morning!

 

 

María José at Cowboy Jamboree

My story "María José" now out in COWBOY JAMBOREE's new themed anthology, I Feel Just Like A Dogwood Tree, writing inspired by Terry Allen's alt-country album Juarez.

[Note: loyal readers may recognize that this story has appeared previously, and is even on this my very blog]

 

Clear Creek Fire in SDR!

My short story"Clear Creek Fire" now out in the latest South Dakota Review! Vol. 59, no. 3, though it's a double issue with no. 4. I can't seem to find ordering info yet, but here's one of my author copies. 

 

Girl on Girl by Emily Costa

My book review of Emily Costa's short story collection, Girl on Girl, published by Rejection Letters Press, now up at Splice Today!

The Nietzschean up at A Thin Slice of Anxiety!

Honored to have another short story,"The Nietzschean," up at A SLICE OF ANXIETY! Perfect home for this one!

 

"The Audition" in North Dakota Quarterly!

Nice way to end the year with a short story, "The Audition," in North Dakota Quarterly! I'm big in the Dakotas! Order a copy here.

Forest Circus—short story

My short story "Forest Circus" up at The Argyle Literary Magazine. Appeared last May and I didn't even know!

 

Guest reader for Five Minute Lit in November!

I'll be one of the guest readers this November for Five Minute Lit! The idea is: 100 words, a story which takes place in five minutes. I'm looking forward to reading your writing! #flash #fiction #writing @FiveMinuteLit

https://www.fiveminutelit.com/

Another Saturday Night in Portland

My short story "Another Saturday Night in Portland" is now up at BULL!

 

https://mrbullbull.com/newbull/fiction/another-saturday-night-in-portland/

Rod Stewart in Mexico

My short story "Rod Stewart in Mexico" in the print issue 41.1 of LOUISIANA LITERATURE. Just got the two free copies!

http://www.louisianaliterature.org/

I guess you can order issues through their Submittable page?
https://louisianaliterature.submittable.com/submit

 

Wilderness Tales, edited by Diane Fuss: a review

My review of Wilderness Tales: Forty Stories of the North American Wild, edited by Diane Fuss, now up at EcoTheo!

 

The Fire in XERIC: An Ecothology

My  short story "The Fire," which originally appeared in MOJAVE HEART back in 2019, is now in XERIC: AN ECOTHOLOGY from Third Eye Sockeye Press . Download the pdf version with link. I'm on page 21, not sure the table of contents links work. 

Green Arrow Speaks

This short story appeared originally at ENTROPY in January 2017. ENTROPY is no longer with us. I hope you enjoy!

The comics

They got it all wrong. The old ones depicted me as this always smiling happy-go-fucking-lucky masked crimefighter, shooting arrows with boxing gloves on the end. I mean, please. That just insults everyone's intelligence. Not to say I always just send an arrow into every crook's eye (though see below), and my desire to limit the violence used to the minimal necessary (mostly) did help inspire my more gimicky arrows. Like my glue arrows. I actually get great satisfaction sending a glue arrow into some punk's face. And, they can be handy when rescuing people from burning buildings, for example.

The worst characterization, or caricature, is the 'new improved' re-boot, featuring me as a rich man. Ha. As if everyone was like Bats. As if most rich people would even care about fighting crime. As if they weren't the cause of it in the big picture. And for the record, I never made a cent off those comics. What was I gonna do? Sue? And reveal my lower middle class identity? I only hope they served in some way to inspire people, to 'do good' I guess, though boxing glove arrows and compassionate rich people are just ridiculous.

Diana

Ok, I know what you're thinking, and yes, she's even more beautiful and intimidating in real life. I like her, totally respect her, though I've never been sure if she feels the same. That said, somebody from the Great Triumvirate voted me into the JLA, it had to at least be two out of three, and I'd put my bet on Bats and her. Bats because I'm a normal guy like him, with a common interest in gadgets, and Diana because she was actually an archer too. She doesn't use a bow now, but she trained with one back on Paradise Island. She told me once that they all the amazons do. I know, hot, right?

Anyway, the thing is, Diana's like 6'6” in those boots, which puts her breasts at about eye level for me, so every time I talk to her I'm like, 'Don't look. Don't look.' But the worst time I ever got busted was one night at the Hall of Justice. Everyone else was either gone or asleep, and I walked into the main room and there she was bending over the monitors, and there was that amazing glorious ass, just pure muscle, with those stars everywhere on her blue booty shorts. Like staring into the Universe.

And then she turned around and totally saw me. I've rarely seen her that angry, at least at one of us good guys. She didn't talk to me outside of business for a long long time after that. I will say though, when it came business time, all was forgotten, and we worked as a team, all of us, and there are few people I'd rather have next to me when fighting armored blue apes from space. I did redeem myself soon after though when the Legion of Doom attacked New York. Scarecrow had her paralyzed with some nightmare (what could Amazons be afraid of?) and I sent an arrow through his bag-mask. Never was sure if I got his eye or not. Poison Ivy dragged him off with one of her vines. Anyway, when Diana recovered, she thanked me, though I've since gone on to piss her off many times. But at least she knows I've got her bare Amazon back.

Bats

I like Bats, I really do. He's just so annoyable. The guy just doesn't have a sense of humor at all. Except like, one time, he hid my arrows, and thought that was hilarious. Went around bragging to everyone. Still does. And I guarantee he snooped around and took bat-pics of all my toys. But would he ever let me check out his bat-utility belt? No. And the times I've been in the Bat Cave, just dying to poke around at all the cool shit there, not once does he ever leave me alone. Even when I ask, like, 'Hey Bats, can I check out your grappling hook?' he'd just say, 'Maybe later.' And then we'd have to leave to go fight the League of Assassins or something.

But yeah, 'Bats.' He hated that. I could never call him Bruce. Only Diana and Sups could really get away with that.

We had a rivalry, sure. But I think we also had a bond. I mean, we were really the only two non-gods in the JLA. I heard rumors, never confirmed, that he almost opted out of joining. I mean, there's a difference between beating up muggers, or even Joker and his pyscho flunkies, and being teleported to another planet, or dimension, and almost getting turned into a tree by a magician demon from the future.

But I'll give him this: he's a smart mo fo. Not just at designing gadgets, but at all kinds of technology. I mean, all the computers and security systems for both the Hall of Justice and the JLA space station, he basically designed all that. And paid for it. Which gets a little into my ultimate misgivings about Bats: He's an arms dealer. Ok, defense contractor, if you want to call it that, but Wayne Industries made its fortune primarily on weapons technologies, and I'm not sure a little philanthropy can really wash all that away. Of course, Bats has saved the world a couple dozen times. So I'm willing to overlook his access to any bit of info about anybody, including the secret email you use for porn. He even set up a wifi connection for Aquaman down in Atlantis somehow.

The one thing I can't decide about Bats is if his no-killing policy is always viable. Case in point: The Joker. There are just so many times you can lock that motherfucker up in Arkham Asylum, and he breaks out again and kills someone else, before you start to think true justice might just be an arrow in the eye. I don't think I'd have that careful of a policy if I was up against him in a dark alley, and sometimes I wish someone in Gotham City with a little less morals, like Catwoman, would help Bats out. By the way, Catwoman and Batman? Totally a thing.

Supes

Ok, you want to hear my theory? Supes is gay. Not in a South Park insult kind of way, not in the sense of, 'Dude, Superman is so gay.' No, I mean, he really is gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I just don't think anyone should live in denial about their sexuality. I mean, ok, I have a hosiery fetish, I'll just put that out there. But Supes—here's my argument: One, Diana. I've had this conversation with about every member of the JLA, current and former, at some point: 'Are Clark and Diana a thing?' 'No, they're not.' 'Really?' 'Really.' Diana's the one woman who could really handle him. Everyone knows that, including them. And they like each other. I'd swear she'd go for it if he'd just make a move, but no. It just doesn't make sense: Lois Lane? Sure she's pretty, in a nerdy boring kind of way, but if Supes ever had sex with her, I mean real sex, fucking, he'd tear her apart. Diana's the only woman who could take a super-fucking. Ok, maybe Power Girl, but that just proves my point, Supes never banged her either, though I think he always considered PG as a kind of a surrogate daughter, but that too seems to prove my point. Have you seen PG's rack? How could anyone think innocent thoughts after seeing that? (I'm kidding, mostly, and I was as sad as anyone when she died.)

Exhibit B on the Supes/gay thing is Bats. I know, you're going to say they are just really good friends. Maybe. Me, I think Supes loves Bats, but could never say how he really feels. I mean, that would just mess up everything, the bond of trust they have. Not that Bats is a homophobe, not at all, but he's definitely got trust issues, and doesn't have that many friends. Hell, he'd say he doesn't have any, doesn't need any, but I'd argue he desperately needs Supes and Diana. Bats is the loneliest guy I know. So, Supes coming out would mean Bats losing a friend. I know that's fucked up to say, and they would still work together, but it would just be weird.

Black Canary

I loved Dinah madly. More than I even knew at the time. I blew it. I was a dick. I didn't treat her well. God, those fishnet tights. I was a goner the first time I saw them. And then her lovely smile. Truth is, I think I thought I didn't deserve her. She was kind of one of the gods. Not like Sups or Diana exactly, but her canary cry could immobilize a mob the size of a city block. Also the competition. I mean, talk about performance anxiety. How was I supposed to feel with all those super-dudes around? I'm not strong. Not smart. Not rich. Not exotically from another planet. I know, I know. Later, after, I was telling all this to Shayera Hol—Hawkgirl—of all people, and she said that, of a League of maybe twenty super-dude members, Dinah chose me. That should have made me proud. Instead, I let doubt ruin everything.

I also couldn't communicate. One night, not that this was unique, Dinah and I were doing it, fucking, making love (I hate that term!) and I was fantasizing about someone else. I mean, I had fucking Black Canary, one of the hottest babes around, right there, and yet I had my eyes closed imagining....I don't know, fucking Poison Ivy, or Diana even, and Dinah stopped and made me look at her and said, 'You're not here, are you?' She totally knew. I mean, I don't think fantasizing is bad, nor that we can choose our fantasies, nor that any one person can be everything to another person, and in fact I think exploring fantasies with another person is healthy, but Dinah and I never talked about our interests with each other. That's what you never see in comic books, or in real life, really: People communicating at that intimate a level. But, that said, I don't know. Maybe Dinah was perfectly fine with how things were, how our sex life was. So if I'd tried to talk about fantasies, especially people we worked with, that might have just hurt her—which is why I never said anything. But then again, if I'd actually said something, and she'd said she had fantasies too, would I have been able to handle that? I mean, would I have been happy if she said she had thoughts about Atom, or Elongated Man, or Bats? Because, I mean, I think all women kinda have a thing for Batman. Even Batwoman, who's supposedly a lesbian and married her partner and everything. So could I handle all that? Probably not. Which isn't fair, I know. Which is why she left. I guess. I don't know. With sex, sometimes total communication just doesn't seem the best thing.

But what she told me was that I never took her seriously. And, I guess there's some truth to that. I mean, I never thought she'd end up as Chair of the JLA, involving both a kind of Incident Commander position and being in charge of finances. I just never thought she'd be interested in that. Meaning, I never saw her as a leader, period. In my defense, I never doubted Diana's power to lead, so please don't say I was a total chauvinist pig. But, I guess Dinah's real complaint is, again, about communication, that I just never talked with her about her goals, her dreams. Never occurred to me that she had any. I didn't. I'd achieved all mine. And then I lost them.

This Is The Trip

"This Is The Trip" originally appeared in the print journal CAMAS, Summer 2021. You can order that issue, now only in pdf form, for $5, here.

It happens, of course, on flat ground. After hiking two and a half miles down into the canyon off Black Mesa, across narrow sandstone ledges and through rock holes and crevasses, and hiking downstream another three miles through no definite trail, up and down benches, crawling through brush, after she'd decides to make the push all the way down to the the Colorado River that night, while walking over some marshy ground, with the weight of her backpack, including seven quarts of water, her right ankle rolls with a stick one way, and her body goes the other, and down, falling on her left side, sharp tearing pain, nausea shooting up her stomach.

She lays there. This can't be good.

She rolls her right foot around, flexing and curling toes. No pain. She moves her right leg, back and forth at the knee. Again, nothing. A vague soreness.

No one there to even see her spectacular fall. She tentatively pushes herself up to standing, wobbling for balance with her pack. Yeah, a little pain with weight. Well, maybe she just twisted it. Walk it off. The old joke her kinda creepy high school soccer coach used to half-kidding say: Are you hurt, or injured?

She walks. Ugh. Pain. But, not shooting pain. Walk some more. Um. I don't know. She puts her feet together. Even with the straps of her sandals stopping the swelling, her right ankle looks like a golf ball. —Shit.

She walks off-trail over to the creek she's been paralleling and crossing all day. Mostly shallow and trickly, but by luck she walks right up to a pool deep enough to soak her foot. She takes off her pack, sits, takes off her sandals and slips both feet in. All she can think about is people blaming her for wearing sandals instead of boots. Despite decades of hiking in sandals. —Fuck. I guess I'm not going to make it to the Colorado today.

A voice in her head said, Tara.

—Jo Jo?

She looks up at the huge red-rock canyon walls, still glowing in late-afternoon sun. It had been a great day, coming down on her mission into the canyon, a Utah-esque BLM wilderness area hidden next to a popular national monument: trickling small stream the whole time, cottonwood and aspens and sage. Ravens and hawks circling up near the edges. Little lizards. Water striders checking out her legs. The creek not very cold—the one time when she could really use that, but feels good. —I gotta get this fucker elevated.

Her mission: To pour her Aunt Jo's ashes in the Colorado River. She could have done it in Vail Pass, at the headwaters, or in Grand Junction, where Jo Jo lived. Used to live. But to backpack into the wilderness, like Jo Jo had taken her when she was twelve, and almost every year since, Tara wanted to make her proud, to make herself proud, she supposed. To show her aunt what a seasoned (as Jo Jo liked to call herself) "outdoorswoman" she had become. Was. With her aunt's help.

Visions and thoughts and plan Bs running through her brain. I'll just stay in camp tomorrow and rest. I'll be fine in 24 hours and can hike back up to Truckie. Or maybe reverse course, slow hike out just in case, camp at the base of the trail up. Or, I'll be fine tomorrow. I'll be fine. Goddammit I'll be fine!

Tara. Lie down.

—Jo Jo?

She looks around and sees a clear sandy spot downstream fifty feet. She stands, pain shooting up her right leg. Shit! Grabbing her sandals in her right hand and her pack in her left, she limp-drags it down to the clearing, a spot where she would have wanted to camp anyways, near the creek, with rocks for burble-sound, but near the now-showing trail in case someone comes. No one will come. No one knows about this place, with no real trail, on a weekday. Not that she would ask for help. She is Tara King and she does not ask anyone for help ever. Ever.

This was supposed to be easy. This is not the Grand Canyon. She's done the Grand Canyon twice with her aunt, and the Grand Canyon is hard. Mee Canyon? Who the hell ever heard of Mee Canyon? Ok, when she bought a map in Grand Junction the bookstore owner said that someone died here a couple weeks ago. But that was up on the hard part, the trail down. Falling off a ledge. She did the hard part.

Not only would people blame her for her sandals, but they would blame her for hiking alone. Her mom especially. She hated that, that people wouldn't ever blame a man for hiking alone and dying. Not that she was going to die. She had water and two days' food. The question was could she get out on schedule before her mom called Search & Rescue. Because fuck Search & Rescue. That's for pussies. Maybe if she broke her leg. This is a sprain. This is fine.

This is not fine.

She lays out her tarp and sleeping pad, placing sandals and water bottles along the edges, using her sleeping bag to elevate her foot, while lying down on the pad with her head propped on the backpack. She moved her foot again, flexing and releasing, curling the toes, tilting it left or right. Left hurts. Not searing tearing pain. Extreme soreness. But the whole foot swollen to the size of a man's. Or of Sasquatch's. Where's a Sasquatch when you need one, to walk quietly out of the trees with some miracle compress which would heal me overnight.

She reaches back over her head into her 'brain'—the top pouch of the backpack—and withdraws the Magic Bottle containing a small collection of random anti-inflamatories and painkillers. She finds a blessed codeine pill left over from her pulled wisdom teeth and gulps it down. She's never used her magic bottle for herself on a trip, only a couple times for others. On hard hikes.

While her brain is open, she pulls out the small metal can, an old looseleaf tea container, and gives a small shake. —Jo Jo, I'm so sorry.

Don't worry about me, Tar Tar. Take care of yourself. I'm not going anywhere.

She pulls out the map. Looking around at the canyon wall formations, she determines where she probably is—closer to the Colorado River than back upstream. Maybe she could hobble down there, catch a ride with a rafting party, and get dropped off on the other side of the river, near a road, which would be sort of close to I-70. But would there be rafters? This early in the year? Would her, or anyone's phone, work out there, in No Woman's Land at the Colorado/Utah border? But according to the map, the next pull-out with a road was eleven miles down, in Utah. Eleven miles by raft was a long-ass day. An OHV area seems to be right across from where Mee Canyon feeds into the Colorado River. Maybe she could get ferried over there by rafters, then get a ride from an ATVer out to the parking area. Yeah, that wasn't to happen. Not like she knew anybody in Grand Junction either—her friends and her mom were all back in Boulder.

After a half-hour of elevation, she gets up to test her foot again. And to pee. Her foot still hurts if she puts too much weight on it. Peeing is a problem. She can't squat. Not even a crouched air drop feels very good. She hops over to, and sits on, an old juniper log by the trail. Number Two also comes. Please don't let anyone come right now. I'm sorry about pooping by the trail.

And she left her toilet paper in her pack. Shit. Literally shit. Time for the sacrifice of a bandana. Wilderness gods—Artemis, Diana, Minerva—forgive me.

She hobbles to the creek for another soak, feeling fuzzy. Codeine, I love you. What's the Gillian Welch song? —You should have seen / me and my codeine / when we used to go dancing / in the war / swept me right off the floor.

Or was it morphine?

Tara.

Jo Jo?

You're going to need something to help you get out of here.

—Like what?

A staff.

—More like a crutch. A cane for the old woman I've become.

Tar Tar, you can't even imagine what you're going to be like when you're old.

—I should have bought some of those ski pole things.

Those are for pussies.

Well, those pussies aren't going to die in the wilderness.

You're not dying. You're hurt real bad, but you're not dying.

—Is that a quote from Reservoir Dogs?

Every good witch needs her staff.

—A broom?

A staff.

She eyes an aspen sapling next to her and pulls out her Leatherman, unfolding the small saw. —So much for Leave No Trace. Sorry, tree. But thank you.

She saws the base, the wood softer than she thought. Halfway through it leans over under its own weight. —Timber!

She cuts through the rest of the bent fibers and stands, leaning on the tree. —If not a Sasquatch, then an Ent would be nice. But you're too small to be an Ent. It's ok, size doesn't matter. Ha. That's what she said. B-dump-ching! Holy fuck I love codeine.

She leans on the tree back to her spot, leaves shaking. Which seems to help. She spends the rest of the evening trimming the branches and cutting off the top for a shoulder-height staff. She practices hobbling again, then raises her staff above her head. —I am Gandalf! Hear me roar! Ow. That hurt.

Rest, Tar Tar.

—Jo Jo, what am I going to do?!

You're doing it.

—Remember that time we ate shrooms in the Vasquez Wilderness?

Your mom would have killed him. She'd still kill me.

Well, she can't now.

She'd take my ashes back and feed them to her cats.

—Hey! Boots and Scarlett are nice cats!

They'd still eat your eyeballs if you died alone in your house.

Jo Jo! Stop! I might die out here!

You're not going to die.

Still. Something would eat me. Coyotes maybe.

You never talked this much to me in real life. I should've kept you on codeine all the time.

Hey! That's not true!

She has not been hungry, still isn't, but opts for her planned dessert, because fuck it, this is a special occasion. She nibbles four Fig Newman's, idly reading the package. —Fuck! Corn syrup?! Paul, what the serious fuck?

She nestles into her sleeping bag in the cooling evening air and sage scent, moving her pack around to elevate her feet, going over the scenarios again, staring up at the sky, bats circling. If she doesn't head out tomorrow, and just rests here, then she either hikes the whole way out the day after, which she doesn't want to do, or she becomes a day, or two, late, and misses work, which she also doesn't want to do. Well, if she's only worried about being a day late, things can't be that bad. She wonders if she can hobble three or four miles upcanyon tomorrow and camp there. Big if.

—Goodnight, Jo Jo.

Goodnight, Tar Tar.

One last crow caw. Warblers warbling good night. On any other night this would be heaven. It still is. She knows wilderness is a human concept, but she likes the wild. This little BLM Wilderness Area more beautiful than the National Monument it butts up against, which gets a million visitors a year. Here, nobody. That's part of its beauty. Or its necessaryness, its needfulness to her, and she creates the beauty of it after. And yes, the danger, though she admits she never thought, really, that the danger would happen to her. This was not part of the plan. I've ruined the trip.

Tara, this is the trip.

She sighs. —I'm not gonna die. It's just gonna be a painful walk out. Right? Right?

Right.

Temp cooling more. Smells good—sage and sand and water. Clear sky. She lies in Figure 4 Pose to keep her foot elevated and scribbles in her notebook. Stars coming out. That first time she went backpacking with her aunt had been, in Sedona, Arizona, which these canyon walls remind her of. She's been in wilderness for fun, and sometimes for work, back a few years when she was a wildland firefighter, and she's never suffered an injury, and yet here she is suffering.

You're not suffering.

—But I am. A little.

You're feeling sorry for yourself.

—Hey! Well, maybe a little.

Actually, right now, laying still as the air and rocks, she isn't. She falls asleep, waking a long time later thinking it's morning but no: the full moon has come across the canyon. I still have more luscious sleep to go.

In the real morning, the swelling in the foot seems to have gone down a little. Not golfball-sized anyway. She hobbles with her staff over to the creek to soak it while the water is still cold—the sun hasn't risen over the canyon walls yet. Still hurts. A sore hurt—not a sharp one—to put weight on it.

A goldfinch observes her. A hummingbird zooms in to a nearby cluster of red flowers.

Well Tar Tar, what's the plan?

She sighs. —Hike hike back to the base of the trail up. Tomorrow will only be 2.5 miles back to Truckie. Uphill, climbing rocks and traversing rock ledges, but still.

Sounds good.

She takes an Ibuprofen 800. No more codeine, alas. She dumps all her water. She has a filter. Usually in a Wilderness area she just drinks the pure water, but this creek is a little murky. She should have dumped her water yesterday when she made it down into the canyon, but she kept it so as to have to avoid pumping it and clogging her filter. If she hadn't....

No ifs.

—Alright. But, I can't bring you to the Colorado!

It's fine, Tara.

—Will you stay with me for the rest of the trip?

Of course.

She suddenly sniffles, tears bubbling down her cheecks.—I miss you so much, Jo Jo.

Oh little Tar Tar. It's alright. I'm here. I always will be.

She sniffs. —Really?

Really. Let's take care of you. Remember R.I.C.E. You need some compression on that ankle.

She rubs her nose. —I don't have any fucking shoes.

Use your bandanas.

She takes her two remaining bandanas out of her brain and wraps them around her ankle.

How's that feel?

—Good. If only psychologically. I guess more stable.

After everything is packed back up, she pops some ibuprofens and raises the pack onto her shoulders, slowly. Mild tender pain. She grabs her staff and bows slightly, like her aunt taught her. Thanks spot. You were a good spot.

And she begins. —Baby steps, Tara, baby steps.

And, she can move. Her ankle throbs dully, but not sharply, unless for some reason she steps at a random angle, when a tearing pain shoots up her legs. Doesn't happen all the time. The staff helps, again maybe psychologically, but also to brace herself on rocks, or crossing the stream. Or going downhill: Going downhill is painful. Fortunately she's going upcanyon. She follows a trail she didn't take down, on the other side of the creek, which leads to a split, two canyons seemingly the same size. She doesn't remember this on her way down. The already sketchy trail is non-existent here. One of these is a big side canyon and she does not want to waste time and energy getting lost.

—Jo Jo, which way?

To the right. You were on the other side of the creek for this last section.

—Oh yeah.

She soon comes on a section of trail she remembers. —Yes!

What, you didn't believe me?

—Well, you are an inanimate voice in my head.

I'm you're Aunt Jo Jo. Remember I always used to say that this is the good thing about being in the wild: the potential to be lost. Even if getting lost sounds awful right now. If you were in the National Monument, there'd be signs everywhere, and an established trail. And people. Ugh.

—Yeah. People do suck.

You must be feeling ok if you're complaining about people. Remember that difficult situations in the Real World, difficult people especially, aren't so difficult after putting yourself in the wild. This is what wilderness is for. To make you think. To make you learn to trust yourself. To teach you to survive.

—Now who's talking a lot?

The sun comes over the canyon edges, making the redrock and creek water glow. Birdsong everywhere. A hawk swoops past and climbs to a cliff. But she can't look, she has to concentrate on her footing, watching every placement of her right foot. One sandstone ledge bordering the creek is agony, the slight angle of it.

But, she's moving. Slowly, and surprisingly not super slow—she had feared having to rest after every step, but there's mostly only the dull pain, and once moving she can absorb it—adrenaline maybe. On flat ground she lifts her staff and takes steps without it. No change. —This will work.

All you, Tar Tar.

She stops to rest and pop more ibus in a still-shady section of sandstone creek, on a short ledge. A hummingbird lands on a juniper and eyes her, or her red outer longsleeve shirt for sun protection. Crows caw up on the rim. Some kind of robin, but with a tufted mohawk hairdo drops down for a drink from a pool. Her foot throbs vaguely. She doesn't know what time it is, blessedly not having a watch and her phone is buried in her brain. Back in the city it feels the other way around.

Her ankle has stiffened during the pause, but loosens up as she moves again. She crashes through brush, gets sucked into a mud bog, but also breaks out into lightly shady openings of cottonwoods. Or she rock-hops straight up the creek when the 'path' vanishes, though her rock-hopping is less hopping than leaning from one to the other with the staff, even rolling her body up and over big ones.

She makes good time, and arrives with the sun high in the sky at the base of the trail up, where a cave or large underhang welcomes her to shade, carved out by the creek. Here the trail becomes established because a quarter-mile upstream the stream flows through an even larger 'cathedral' cave—the destination of day-hikers. This smaller cave has a fire ring and logs for benches, on sand. She was here only yesterday, her lunch spot. Seems like a week. Still early afternoon, but she'll camp here. She doesn't want to try the climb out and end up hurt again as night falls. Besides, she's actually still on schedule: tomorrow was when she was going to climb out anyways.

Let's light a fire!

Jo Jo! I'm shocked and appalled!

Special treat!

They never did this when backpacking. Aunt Jo never liked leaving a scar, or risking a wildfire, but this is an established ring, and it gives her something to do that doesn't require walking. With more than a few pages from her notebook, and sticks and dry leaves from nearby, and a lighter (which she does always carry in case of emergency) she gets a flame going and puts on some larger pieces already gathered by someone. The fire feels surprisingly comforting, the heat good in the cool cave, though sunshine shines twenty feet away.

Ok. Let's soak that ankle again.

—The creek's too shallow.

Build a little damn.

Tara limps over to the creek and sits, stacking rocks and scooping mud, which always keeps her occupied while resting. The water is slightly cooler here in the cave.

How's the foot?

—Still Sasquatch-like.

Does it hurt?

—A constant low throb, I guess. Which is better than I thought.

Take more drugs.

Yeah?

Next to the fire, she lays out her tarp and sleeping pad, taking a prescription Tylenol from her magic bottle, elevating her feet on her pack, and takes a long deep nap.

When she wakes, she builds up the fire, putting on two larger logs.

You seem better.

—I feel better! The hike out will be fine. I'm even thinking about the pizza I'm gonna eat in GJ.

Garlic onions and spinach.

—Yes!

But then just sitting and watching the fire and scribbling in her notebook, she moves her foot and a jolt of pain shoots up. Maybe the meds are wearing off. —Oh codeine!

When the sun passes beyond the canyon wall she rolls out her bag and, surprisingly, just goes to sleep again, early, which feels wonderful.

Up with the birds in the morning, unusually.

Good morning, Tara. You usually like to sleep late on trips.

—I'm worried about the hike out. I just want to just get it over with, whatever happens. Maybe the earlier I hurts myself again, the earlier someone will find me.

Tar Tar.

What?! I'm joking!

She packs, pops ibu, tightens her bandanas around her bigfoot foot, and starts up the canyon wall.

Just take it easy when you get to the crazy shit.

—Um, I think the whole climb out is the crazy shit.

All the big rocks she slid down she now has to climb up, made crazier by not being able to use one foot. So, scraping knees and elbows. But she can use her hands and arms here, the staff not so useful for this section.

She rests at the really crazy part: the narrow ledge fifteen feet above, accesible by a short narrow chimney to the right, which she'd basically almost jumped down on the descent.

—I can't do it.

Yes you can.

—Not with my pack. Maybe with both feet working, but not now.

So take off your pack.

I'm not leaving my pack!

Well, that for sure means you're not dying. I dying person would leave their pack.

I'm not leaving my pack!

I didn't tell you to. What did I teach you to always carry?

—I don't know. Lots of things. Oh.

So she gets out some 'p-cord'—thing nylon rope which weighs nothing, and ties one end to her pack, unfurling the rest and putting tying the other end to a belt loop. She tosses her staff up and over. In the chimney she has to do more pulling than pushing, not using her right foot at all, worming her way up to the ledge, about a foot wide and ten feet long. Holding the p-cord, she inches across, not sure if her ankle won't give out at the wrong time and cause her to lose balance. But she makes it and pulls her pack up, the nylon burning her hands a little.

See? Sin problema!

—No problemo!

More scrambling, the staff an annoyance more than anything, because she wants to use her hands to lean into the rock.

Don't toss it.

—Ugh. Why not?!

You'll need it later.

—Ugh.

Another ledge to a hole in the wall she has to crawl through, pulling her pack after. Finally to the Navaho ladder—the one human-made section, built by the BLM because otherwise the way up would be out and over on a narrow rock fin. The ladder used to be bolted to the rock, but the bolts have worn loose. Coming down with a full pack felt like if she'd just leaned back an inch her center of gravity would have carried the whole thing over. Better with a light pack, though still loose. The one place so far where the bum ankle is not a problem, though once up, she has another narrow ledge—not so bad in the scariness, but it tilts up to her right, which puts her foot at a painful angle. Plus she thinks she wrapped the bandanas too tight this morning—her whole foot throbbing, more as she gets up on top of the mesa—out of the redrock onto the sage and juniper and cryptobiotic soil (with cow prints—thank you BLM and ranchers) but still a slog uphill along an old two-track.

You got this now, Tar Tar.

—Why does this hurt more?!

Slower and slower, her foot now really throbbing. She wants to tear off the damn bandanas, but thinks she's almost there, except she's not almost there until, finally, she is there, at the trailhead, and Truckie. She shakes off her pack and leans against the hot metal and cries.

Tar Tar. Pobrecita. You did it! I'm so proud of you.

—But I didn't get you to the river.

Oh who cares about that. That was your idea anyways. This is the best present I could have.

—Maybe I'm crying because I have to say goodbye.

Maybe.

—Maybe I take you on the next one.

I'd like that. But you don't need my ashes to do it.

—What do you mean?

I mean you don't have to carry around a can full of ashes for the rest of your life.

—You mean you want me to dump them here?! In the parking lot?

This all drains down into the Colorado eventually anyways.

—Jo Jo!

It's fine! Todo bien!

—Not todo bien!

But she took the can out of her brain. —Really?

Go ahead!

—I'll do it over here.

She walked to a juniper and opened the can, taking a deep breath.

Wait! Wait!

—What?!

Just kidding. Go ahead.

—Jesus christ, Jo Jo.

Sorry.

—Fuck

She took another breath and poured. Grey chunks and powder tumbled out. A breeze appeared and blew some of the powdery parts into the juniper branches.

This is nice. But call your mom now and tell her you're ok. I'll see you on the next trip!

—Jo Jo!

You're fine!

—Am I?

Of course! I mean, you still have to drive out of here in a stick shift, but hey.

—I...thank you.

It was all you. Tell your mom I said hello.

The last of the dust trickled out of the can.