Windy Gap-3
Neither of us wanted to do anything too stressful. We agreed that our trip should be just different enough to break from routine. When the next Saturday rolled around, we shared a breakfast at a local greasy spoon and bounced ideas off each other on how to spend the day. We finally decided to hike to Windy Gap, a moderately challenging trail in the mountains near the city.
“Perfect!” Pete beamed. “Only in LA do you drive for miles to take a walk!”
I hadn’t thought of that, and suggested we could try something else.
“No, no, it’s absolutely perfect,” he insisted.
Pete was more right than he knew when he said “Only in LA,” because the day proved to be one of those bright, breezy heaven-sent miracles that make people endure all the bullshit Southern California demands as the price of admission. Even the freeways cooperated, giving us a wide-open road into the San Gabriels. We opened our windows to let the dry winds blow through the car and even I had to smile.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,” he said.
I chuckled. “I haven’t had much to smile about lately,” I said. “But when the weather’s like this…”
“All your troubles kind of blow away on the breezes,” he said, finishing my thought for me.
I nodded.
“So what sort of troubles?” he asked.
“Just bullshit,” I said. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Sure I do,” he said. Then before I could contradict him, he went on. “I know what you’re thinking, ‘I barely know this guy. Why should I confide in him?’”
It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but it was close enough.
“I get it,” he said. “But look at it this way. If I’m a stranger, it doesn’t make any difference, because who am I going to tell? And if I’m a friend—well, that’s what friends are for, right? Unless, of course, you want to stay bottled up like cheap champagne ready to pop.”
I laughed at the metaphor.
“Laughing is a good start,” he said.
So I opened up. Or rather, I let out all of my frustrations about Sharon, work, LA, politics, traffic, cheap fashion, stupid people, fast food, bad software—so much that when I pulled into the parking lot for the trail, I was almost hoarse. Pete must have said something once in a while, but like a dam bursting, my rant carried all before it. It was only when I stopped the car and turned off the engine that I realized where we were and shut up for a minute.
“Now, that didn’t hurt so much, did it?” Pete asked, smiling.
The parking lot was surprisingly empty, especially on such a beautiful day. A packed-dirt lot amidst Ponderosa pines, it was both rustic and a little deceptive, for if you looked in the right direction through the trees you could see the metropolitan area stretched to the sea.
As we got out of the car, we were immediately hit by walls of dry heat. “Phew!” Pete said, coughing at the sudden change.
“So much for their recommendation to dress for the cold!” I said. Breezes thick with the smell of pitch swished through the trees like a brush hitting a drum head. It’s a sound you only hear in pine woods that made me think of my childhood in Oregon, even though the air was drier and warmer.
“Really?” Pete asked as we strapped on our backpacks. “That must have been nice.”
“I miss it sometimes,” I said as we headed to the trail.
Pete laughed. “Well I sure don’t miss the San Joaquin Valley,” he said.
“Is that where you’re from?” I asked.
He nodded. “It’s not even real country. Nothing like this. Just industrial farming and oil wells.”
I laughed a little. “Sounds like hell on earth.”
He didn’t pick up the thread. “I read about this trail online,” he said after a moment. “There was a big fire here in 2002.” He walked resolutely to the beginning of the trail. The pines were not that thick at first, but the trail soon narrowed. The sky was deeply blue, and the sun beat down with brutal clarity. The dirt was packed pretty hard and the large rocks were pushed to either side. The ascent was just steep enough to get the blood moving, the heart beating and the sweat flowing. It was what I needed to begin to come back to life, and I said as much.
“That’s good to hear,” Pete said. “Sounds as if I won’t have to give you anything more to keep your spirits up.”
“So that was it?” I asked, thinking of the pillow.
“Oh sure,” he said. “I like giving people things to make them happy.”
I was about to comment yet again about his generosity, but remembering his reaction, or rather, lack of reaction to the first time I’d said so, I kept quiet for a few moments, then asked “So what do you do, Pete?”
“Do?”
“I mean, you give away so much. What are you, independently wealthy?” I asked with a note of irony, for I figured nobody living in our building was likely to be much better than a middle-class wage slave.
“I’m kind of unemployed,” he said flatly.
Having entered potentially awkward territory, all I could think of to say was “Oh.”
He smiled at my discomfort, perhaps reading my mind. “It’s by choice,” he said, and nothing more. “There’s a lot to be said for not worrying about work.”
“If you can afford it.”
“I get by.”
“Sooner or later, it runs out.”
“Yeah, sooner or later,” Pete said as he kept moving and there was a finality to the way he said it that told me the light-hearted, joking guy was suddenly almost reluctant to speak. Coming after my long tirade, I almost resented the change. “Well at least you know a lot about me, even if I don’t know anything about you,” I said finally, trying to say it in a playful way that nonetheless made the point.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be evasive. It’s just I’m the world’s most boring person.”
I found that difficult to accept. Was he fishing? I didn’t think so. “You’re not boring,” I said.
He laughed a little, but was clearly uncomfortable. “I guess I like being a mirror for everyone else.”
“There, see what I mean?” I asked. “No one who says something like that can be boring.” Then it struck me. “Are you a writer?”
“God, no!” he said, laughing. “No really, I just like listening to other people. That makes them happy, and that makes me happy.”
Neither of us wanted to do anything too stressful. We agreed that our trip should be just different enough to break from routine. When the next Saturday rolled around, we shared a breakfast at a local greasy spoon and bounced ideas off each other on how to spend the day. We finally decided to hike to Windy Gap, a moderately challenging trail in the mountains near the city.
“Perfect!” Pete beamed. “Only in LA do you drive for miles to take a walk!”
I hadn’t thought of that, and suggested we could try something else.
“No, no, it’s absolutely perfect,” he insisted.
Pete was more right than he knew when he said “Only in LA,” because the day proved to be one of those bright, breezy heaven-sent miracles that make people endure all the bullshit Southern California demands as the price of admission. Even the freeways cooperated, giving us a wide-open road into the San Gabriels. We opened our windows to let the dry winds blow through the car and even I had to smile.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,” he said.
I chuckled. “I haven’t had much to smile about lately,” I said. “But when the weather’s like this…”
“All your troubles kind of blow away on the breezes,” he said, finishing my thought for me.
I nodded.
“So what sort of troubles?” he asked.
“Just bullshit,” I said. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Sure I do,” he said. Then before I could contradict him, he went on. “I know what you’re thinking, ‘I barely know this guy. Why should I confide in him?’”
It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but it was close enough.
“I get it,” he said. “But look at it this way. If I’m a stranger, it doesn’t make any difference, because who am I going to tell? And if I’m a friend—well, that’s what friends are for, right? Unless, of course, you want to stay bottled up like cheap champagne ready to pop.”
I laughed at the metaphor.
“Laughing is a good start,” he said.
So I opened up. Or rather, I let out all of my frustrations about Sharon, work, LA, politics, traffic, cheap fashion, stupid people, fast food, bad software—so much that when I pulled into the parking lot for the trail, I was almost hoarse. Pete must have said something once in a while, but like a dam bursting, my rant carried all before it. It was only when I stopped the car and turned off the engine that I realized where we were and shut up for a minute.
“Now, that didn’t hurt so much, did it?” Pete asked, smiling.
The parking lot was surprisingly empty, especially on such a beautiful day. A packed-dirt lot amidst Ponderosa pines, it was both rustic and a little deceptive, for if you looked in the right direction through the trees you could see the metropolitan area stretched to the sea.
As we got out of the car, we were immediately hit by walls of dry heat. “Phew!” Pete said, coughing at the sudden change.
“So much for their recommendation to dress for the cold!” I said. Breezes thick with the smell of pitch swished through the trees like a brush hitting a drum head. It’s a sound you only hear in pine woods that made me think of my childhood in Oregon, even though the air was drier and warmer.
“Really?” Pete asked as we strapped on our backpacks. “That must have been nice.”
“I miss it sometimes,” I said as we headed to the trail.
Pete laughed. “Well I sure don’t miss the San Joaquin Valley,” he said.
“Is that where you’re from?” I asked.
He nodded. “It’s not even real country. Nothing like this. Just industrial farming and oil wells.”
I laughed a little. “Sounds like hell on earth.”
He didn’t pick up the thread. “I read about this trail online,” he said after a moment. “There was a big fire here in 2002.” He walked resolutely to the beginning of the trail. The pines were not that thick at first, but the trail soon narrowed. The sky was deeply blue, and the sun beat down with brutal clarity. The dirt was packed pretty hard and the large rocks were pushed to either side. The ascent was just steep enough to get the blood moving, the heart beating and the sweat flowing. It was what I needed to begin to come back to life, and I said as much.
“That’s good to hear,” Pete said. “Sounds as if I won’t have to give you anything more to keep your spirits up.”
“So that was it?” I asked, thinking of the pillow.
“Oh sure,” he said. “I like giving people things to make them happy.”
I was about to comment yet again about his generosity, but remembering his reaction, or rather, lack of reaction to the first time I’d said so, I kept quiet for a few moments, then asked “So what do you do, Pete?”
“Do?”
“I mean, you give away so much. What are you, independently wealthy?” I asked with a note of irony, for I figured nobody living in our building was likely to be much better than a middle-class wage slave.
“I’m kind of unemployed,” he said flatly.
Having entered potentially awkward territory, all I could think of to say was “Oh.”
He smiled at my discomfort, perhaps reading my mind. “It’s by choice,” he said, and nothing more. “There’s a lot to be said for not worrying about work.”
“If you can afford it.”
“I get by.”
“Sooner or later, it runs out.”
“Yeah, sooner or later,” Pete said as he kept moving and there was a finality to the way he said it that told me the light-hearted, joking guy was suddenly almost reluctant to speak. Coming after my long tirade, I almost resented the change. “Well at least you know a lot about me, even if I don’t know anything about you,” I said finally, trying to say it in a playful way that nonetheless made the point.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be evasive. It’s just I’m the world’s most boring person.”
I found that difficult to accept. Was he fishing? I didn’t think so. “You’re not boring,” I said.
He laughed a little, but was clearly uncomfortable. “I guess I like being a mirror for everyone else.”
“There, see what I mean?” I asked. “No one who says something like that can be boring.” Then it struck me. “Are you a writer?”
“God, no!” he said, laughing. “No really, I just like listening to other people. That makes them happy, and that makes me happy.”