Wind
It slaps you out here, when it comes. Not because its harsh- the wind- because weather’s weather, out here. Rain lashes, fog consumes, and the wind, it slaps you.
They crest the Olema hill, verdant lush down to the blackberry eucalyptus jungle, down to the sea. The pickup’s seen better, though in summer weather it’s a coastal dream- the hardtop lifts right off and slap! comes the wind from everywhere doing 35, 40, 45, 50, till you’re used to the howling and it’s a fullbody massage. The pickup crests the hill, its hardtop locked now, in November, and they stop their bickering for a breath or two, the clouds over the headlands, the Irish roll of Bear Valley sucking the fight out through their eyes.
He grumbles, grinds a gear, and takes the slick turn too fast. She stomps an imaginary brake and stretches against the window, hands on dash, face drawn. “Goddamnit, slow down.”
“Yuh,” he says. He downshifts again and they jounce down to Highway one’s Bed and Breakfast infestation. He stops at the T and sits, grinding palms against the steering wheel. He could have cut hard left at the last turn, flipped the wheel back right. She was smaller. He would have lived. When they pulled him from the crushed wreck of the truck he would have been crying, and everyone would feel terrible for him, and he could go on a bender that would never end.
“Are you gonna sit here?”
He looks over at her, the steering wheel making friction noises under his palms, and a strange stab of emotion hits him. He wants to cry, high in his chest where it feels like a rollercoaster dipping back into his throat. He blinks. Turns left.
“What’s the matter with you?” He just shakes his head, the choking tears receding back to somewhere in his stomach. It would be so sad, if she died in a car crash. Terrible, if she slipped off the cliffs. Everyone would feel so bad for him, and drive him home when he collapsed in a corner of the bar.
“Where’s this joker live?”
She stretches her neck before answering. She’s pretty enough. Nice legs, eyes, skin. “I told you, out toward Agate. I told you enough times.”
“Right after Dogtown?”
“Yes.” She was pretty enough. Everyone would feel so bad if she died in a car crash. He pushed the tears down again, and knew clearly what a shitbag he was. The pickup lumbered down toward Bolinas, wet-season wind slapping at it. Even with the windows up it smelled like fairytales, out here. Like luscious rotting earth and dripping trees.
He could slip the wheel on the wet road and smash into those trees.
You fuck. You coward fuck. Just pull over here, tell her its over.
Everyone would feel so bad for her. He’d have to move towns.
They made their way to the Doc’s house, she directing by grasping his shirt and stabbing fingers at a turn ahead, he shaking loose and hunching further into his shoulders. She turned the radio on, and couldn’t find a clear signal. He exhaled, too loudly, and switched it off. Every tree beckoned, and he knew that he should break up with her.
Break up with her before it’s hell for sure.
“You believe?” he asked, as they switched from paved to dirt and back to paved.
“Believe?”
“Yuh. Were you brought up religious?”
She looked at him funny, grabbed his shirt and pointed at a left turn. “No.”
“No Earth-mother mumbo, no redpath, even?” She stared at him. “Christopher Hitchens,” he said, twisting the wheel under his hands, “when Jerry Falwell died, Christopher Hitchens said he wished there was a hell for Falwell to go to.” Stared. “You think there’s a hell?”
“Christopher Hitchens? And who’s Jerry Falwell?”
“Loudmouths,” he said, and hunched down further. “Both of ‘em. Hitchens wants Henry Kissinger hung.”
“Kissinger?”
“Christ- you don’t read?”
She stared at him, a pickled fish. “There it is,” she said.
Ramshackle, clapboard… veneral came to mind. An ageing hippie in overalls stood next to the onestory, a picnic basket in one hand, no shirt under his straps. The wind slapped his loosetied hair. She opened the door before he’d cut the engine, and they both got out into the encroaching fog, the pickup adding steam. “Hey,” the Doc said, and put his basket down. “I was gonna go pick agate. Thought you wouldn’t make it.”
“The storm’ll bring it in, huh?” he said, popping the pickup’s hood to help it cool.
“Yessir,” the Doc said. “Storms turn up all sorts of treasure.” He grinned. “I’ll get my scrip.” She came over suddenly and snuggled against him, twisting like a cat, nuzzling in his neck. He wanted to cry again. You fuck, he told himself. You fuck.
“Mmm… this’ll be good,” she said, tracing the line of his jaw. He pulled away slightly. “We can make some money.”
“Violence,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “Paranoia,” he insisted. “Fine things to bring home with you.”
“Don’t be a shit,” she growled, and stepped away from him. “You smoke enough of it, so don’t be a shit.” The Doc came back outside, and stood before them in his overalls, apparently comfortable in the cold and wind without his shirt.
“So, what seems to be the trouble, young man?”
“Hell,” he said, and blushed, because no one else would think him clever. You fuck. You fuck. She stared at him, and jerked her eyes toward the Doc.
“Your back,” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got lumbar amnesia, Doc. Spinal halitosis, and my dick won’t get hard after a fifth of whiskey.”
She shoved him, hard, and he was happy for a moment. It started to rain. “Well, son, maybe I can help. A heinous set of symptoms, that.” He eyed the intensifying drizzle. “Step inside my office?”
He went before her into the shack-house, and she whispered harshly at his back: “Do you think he wants you makin fun, you stupid shit, do you think Celia called him so you could be a shit if you fuck this up I don’t know-“
“So,” the Doc said, and gestured toward a stinking couch, a television set playing silent San Fransisco daytime across from it. “Lumbar region, repetitive stress damage, affecting your… virility.” Raised his forearm violently, a fist-salute.
He didn’t answer. On the TV, a woman left her car and leapt into the arms of a man in a suit. His eyes stung before the urge to cry passed. Did they love one another?
She shoved him, and it hurt, this time. He breathed too deeply, hiding his face from them, and reached into his jacket for the envelope. Tossed it onto the television. “Yuh,” he said, and didn’t look at the Doc.
“Depression?” the Doc asked.
“O,” he answered, meeting his eyes. “O-pression.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed.
“You know,” the Doc said, retrieving the envelope, thumbing it open thoughtfully, “I do a bit of couple’s counseling.”
“The scrip,” he said, and the Doc nodded, disappearing the envelope beneath his sagging chest. He scribbled on a pad, and held the result out. She snatched it hungrily from before his outstretched hand.
“That’ll do for the club,” he said. “I got to examine you, just in case a polygraph ever comes into it. Stand up, son.” He did. The Doc came over and pressed on his back, right above his jeans. Harder. Harder still. The Doc dug a knuckle into his kidney, sighing in exasperation.
“Shit, ow!” He shoved the old man away gently.
“Just as I thought,” the Doc intoned. “Repetitive stress. Now get the hell out of my house.”
They mounted into the pickup silently, and the Doc came out and gathered his picnic basket, waved cheerfully.
“Don’t you want a shirt?” he called, but the Doc just walked off.
“What was that?” she hissed at him as they pulled out. “Celia does us this favor and you act like a complete shit, I think he’s her uncle, what is wrong with you?”
“All sorts of things,” he said, and almost cried, again. You fuck.
She looked at him intently. “You’d better get real,” she hissed. “This isn’t playtime any more. This,” shaking the scrip, “is going rent a house for us. Some land. Pay for school and clothes and a new fucking car, you understand?”
He looked over at her and reached out. Gentle though the gesture was, she recoiled, surprised. He rested his palm on the swell of her belly, already pushing her tits skyward when she sat, making an arc of the loose pants she wore. He rubbed the swollen globe, and the tears battered against the wall in his throat again, again, again.
You fuck, he told himself. You fuck.
It slaps you out here, when it comes. Not because its harsh- the wind- because weather’s weather, out here. Rain lashes, fog consumes, and the wind, it slaps you.
They crest the Olema hill, verdant lush down to the blackberry eucalyptus jungle, down to the sea. The pickup’s seen better, though in summer weather it’s a coastal dream- the hardtop lifts right off and slap! comes the wind from everywhere doing 35, 40, 45, 50, till you’re used to the howling and it’s a fullbody massage. The pickup crests the hill, its hardtop locked now, in November, and they stop their bickering for a breath or two, the clouds over the headlands, the Irish roll of Bear Valley sucking the fight out through their eyes.
He grumbles, grinds a gear, and takes the slick turn too fast. She stomps an imaginary brake and stretches against the window, hands on dash, face drawn. “Goddamnit, slow down.”
“Yuh,” he says. He downshifts again and they jounce down to Highway one’s Bed and Breakfast infestation. He stops at the T and sits, grinding palms against the steering wheel. He could have cut hard left at the last turn, flipped the wheel back right. She was smaller. He would have lived. When they pulled him from the crushed wreck of the truck he would have been crying, and everyone would feel terrible for him, and he could go on a bender that would never end.
“Are you gonna sit here?”
He looks over at her, the steering wheel making friction noises under his palms, and a strange stab of emotion hits him. He wants to cry, high in his chest where it feels like a rollercoaster dipping back into his throat. He blinks. Turns left.
“What’s the matter with you?” He just shakes his head, the choking tears receding back to somewhere in his stomach. It would be so sad, if she died in a car crash. Terrible, if she slipped off the cliffs. Everyone would feel so bad for him, and drive him home when he collapsed in a corner of the bar.
“Where’s this joker live?”
She stretches her neck before answering. She’s pretty enough. Nice legs, eyes, skin. “I told you, out toward Agate. I told you enough times.”
“Right after Dogtown?”
“Yes.” She was pretty enough. Everyone would feel so bad if she died in a car crash. He pushed the tears down again, and knew clearly what a shitbag he was. The pickup lumbered down toward Bolinas, wet-season wind slapping at it. Even with the windows up it smelled like fairytales, out here. Like luscious rotting earth and dripping trees.
He could slip the wheel on the wet road and smash into those trees.
You fuck. You coward fuck. Just pull over here, tell her its over.
Everyone would feel so bad for her. He’d have to move towns.
They made their way to the Doc’s house, she directing by grasping his shirt and stabbing fingers at a turn ahead, he shaking loose and hunching further into his shoulders. She turned the radio on, and couldn’t find a clear signal. He exhaled, too loudly, and switched it off. Every tree beckoned, and he knew that he should break up with her.
Break up with her before it’s hell for sure.
“You believe?” he asked, as they switched from paved to dirt and back to paved.
“Believe?”
“Yuh. Were you brought up religious?”
She looked at him funny, grabbed his shirt and pointed at a left turn. “No.”
“No Earth-mother mumbo, no redpath, even?” She stared at him. “Christopher Hitchens,” he said, twisting the wheel under his hands, “when Jerry Falwell died, Christopher Hitchens said he wished there was a hell for Falwell to go to.” Stared. “You think there’s a hell?”
“Christopher Hitchens? And who’s Jerry Falwell?”
“Loudmouths,” he said, and hunched down further. “Both of ‘em. Hitchens wants Henry Kissinger hung.”
“Kissinger?”
“Christ- you don’t read?”
She stared at him, a pickled fish. “There it is,” she said.
Ramshackle, clapboard… veneral came to mind. An ageing hippie in overalls stood next to the onestory, a picnic basket in one hand, no shirt under his straps. The wind slapped his loosetied hair. She opened the door before he’d cut the engine, and they both got out into the encroaching fog, the pickup adding steam. “Hey,” the Doc said, and put his basket down. “I was gonna go pick agate. Thought you wouldn’t make it.”
“The storm’ll bring it in, huh?” he said, popping the pickup’s hood to help it cool.
“Yessir,” the Doc said. “Storms turn up all sorts of treasure.” He grinned. “I’ll get my scrip.” She came over suddenly and snuggled against him, twisting like a cat, nuzzling in his neck. He wanted to cry again. You fuck, he told himself. You fuck.
“Mmm… this’ll be good,” she said, tracing the line of his jaw. He pulled away slightly. “We can make some money.”
“Violence,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. “Paranoia,” he insisted. “Fine things to bring home with you.”
“Don’t be a shit,” she growled, and stepped away from him. “You smoke enough of it, so don’t be a shit.” The Doc came back outside, and stood before them in his overalls, apparently comfortable in the cold and wind without his shirt.
“So, what seems to be the trouble, young man?”
“Hell,” he said, and blushed, because no one else would think him clever. You fuck. You fuck. She stared at him, and jerked her eyes toward the Doc.
“Your back,” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got lumbar amnesia, Doc. Spinal halitosis, and my dick won’t get hard after a fifth of whiskey.”
She shoved him, hard, and he was happy for a moment. It started to rain. “Well, son, maybe I can help. A heinous set of symptoms, that.” He eyed the intensifying drizzle. “Step inside my office?”
He went before her into the shack-house, and she whispered harshly at his back: “Do you think he wants you makin fun, you stupid shit, do you think Celia called him so you could be a shit if you fuck this up I don’t know-“
“So,” the Doc said, and gestured toward a stinking couch, a television set playing silent San Fransisco daytime across from it. “Lumbar region, repetitive stress damage, affecting your… virility.” Raised his forearm violently, a fist-salute.
He didn’t answer. On the TV, a woman left her car and leapt into the arms of a man in a suit. His eyes stung before the urge to cry passed. Did they love one another?
She shoved him, and it hurt, this time. He breathed too deeply, hiding his face from them, and reached into his jacket for the envelope. Tossed it onto the television. “Yuh,” he said, and didn’t look at the Doc.
“Depression?” the Doc asked.
“O,” he answered, meeting his eyes. “O-pression.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed.
“You know,” the Doc said, retrieving the envelope, thumbing it open thoughtfully, “I do a bit of couple’s counseling.”
“The scrip,” he said, and the Doc nodded, disappearing the envelope beneath his sagging chest. He scribbled on a pad, and held the result out. She snatched it hungrily from before his outstretched hand.
“That’ll do for the club,” he said. “I got to examine you, just in case a polygraph ever comes into it. Stand up, son.” He did. The Doc came over and pressed on his back, right above his jeans. Harder. Harder still. The Doc dug a knuckle into his kidney, sighing in exasperation.
“Shit, ow!” He shoved the old man away gently.
“Just as I thought,” the Doc intoned. “Repetitive stress. Now get the hell out of my house.”
They mounted into the pickup silently, and the Doc came out and gathered his picnic basket, waved cheerfully.
“Don’t you want a shirt?” he called, but the Doc just walked off.
“What was that?” she hissed at him as they pulled out. “Celia does us this favor and you act like a complete shit, I think he’s her uncle, what is wrong with you?”
“All sorts of things,” he said, and almost cried, again. You fuck.
She looked at him intently. “You’d better get real,” she hissed. “This isn’t playtime any more. This,” shaking the scrip, “is going rent a house for us. Some land. Pay for school and clothes and a new fucking car, you understand?”
He looked over at her and reached out. Gentle though the gesture was, she recoiled, surprised. He rested his palm on the swell of her belly, already pushing her tits skyward when she sat, making an arc of the loose pants she wore. He rubbed the swollen globe, and the tears battered against the wall in his throat again, again, again.
You fuck, he told himself. You fuck.
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