Windy Gap— 4
I could believe that Pete believed this about himself, and even that it might be partly true. The items disappearing from his apartment and the pillow lent some credence to what he was saying. On the other hand, what was left showed that at some point he must have had a little spare change. Of course, how he managed his life was none of my business, but by keeping everything to himself, it was tough to find anything to talk about.
Once again as if reading my mind, he said, “I’ve only been giving things away in the last year or so.” He paused as we negotiated a relatively steep bit of trail. “I had a nice Chinese vase that I gave to that lady who lives near the laundry room. That was the first thing,” he said as the ground flattened again.
“Yeah?” I said, thinking of that woman at the end of the hall.
“She needed something for flowers for a party. So I loaned her the vase, then told her she could keep it. That was the start.”
“What else have you given away?”
“Oh lots of stuff,” he said. “My silverware. The china…” and he continued with a lengthy list of utensils, clothing, board games, books, recordings, cameras, computer peripherals, old telephones, watches, even cuff links, on and on and on. “Anyway,” he said laughing at himself, “a lot of stuff.”
“It’s amazing there is anything left,” I said, more than a bit dazed.
“Well the furniture is harder to give away because it is so bulky.” He paused to think. “I wanted older stuff because I knew it would be made to last. What’s the saying? ‘Be careful what you wish for…’?”
He was smiling and almost in spite of myself, I found his lengthy description of all his gifts oddly compelling. We got so wrapped up in the list that when we reached the “windy gap,” we didn’t realize it at first. As if to remind us why we were there, a gust blew up hard from the valley below.
The suddenly bare mountainside made it clear we had reached the trail’s “saddle.” With the tops of hills to either side, and with a recess at the center, the gap lived up to the name. A few lonely pines stunted by the winds gripped tenaciously to the face of the hills, while to either side of the trail blue and purple mountainsides stretched to the horizon, like successive waves ready to crash on the beach.
Despite the sunshine and the hot dry air, the unceasing winds made it feel as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. “Now I see why they said to wear warm clothes!” I shouted, for the wind made it difficult to converse. After only a couple of minutes in the gap, we retreated a few hundred yards back into the woods, where trees shielded the trail from the wind and sun. We sat on a boulder, swigged some water and relaxed with a view of the valley below.
“I used to be a programmer,” Pete blurted out as I gulped down some water.
“A programmer? So, you’re one of the Masters of the Universe I was bitching about,” I said, laughing a little.
He snorted. “Only idiots think of themselves that way.” A gust of wind whipped through the trees. “I used to enjoy it,” he said, staring at the horizon. “Figuring out a puzzle, struggling with it and the rush when you finally get it right.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Yeah, but after a while you can only get so excited about a missing parenthesis.”
“I guess,” I said. “To be honest, I don’t know much about it.”
“Lucky you!” he said. “I mean sure, the more you do it, the better you can deal with bigger challenges. But staring at the screen through a fog of coffee and junk food day in, day out, it’s like you’re a tool for the machine. I wanted some fresh air. Besides…” he said, but trailed off.
“Besides what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Anyway,” he continued after a lengthy pause, “I just wanted to live a little. Not a party animal or anything. Just somebody who cares whether it’s raining or sunny.” He paused again. “Somebody normal.”
“I don’t think anybody’s normal,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
“I think there are lots of people who think they know what it means. And I think they hold it against anyone who doesn’t measure up. But deep down, they’re just as fucked up.”
Pete turned to me, smiling. “OK,” he said. “So let’s say I wanted to be one of those people who can fool themselves.”
He meant it as joke at his own expense, but his words struck me like a lightning bolt. “Like me!” I said after several moments of silent realization, amused and amazed at how much I fit my own description.
“You’ll put things back together,” Pete said. “That’s kind of what makes you normal.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Not with Sharon. But maybe. Sooner or later, you have to face your problems. Maybe that’s all that ‘normal’ means,” I said, feeling as if things were beginning to make sense for me.
“Hey, look we have a friend!” Pete said with excitement, interrupting my thoughts and pointing to a squirrel hunched on its hind legs beneath a low-hanging branch of a nearby pine. It stared at a cone on the branch, then suddenly leapt into the air to reach it. The branch couldn’t support the squirrel’s weight, and so it almost immediately fell off. When it finally succeeded in grasping the branch, the squirrel turned upside down to get at the cone, and fell again to the ground. The repeated efforts and failures made me want the silly animal to give up, but it finally succeeded after several false starts.
“I feel like I should applaud,” I said.
Pete laughed, but then started to cough. It was a particularly rough and nasty one, but after it had subsided, he stood up. “You can just see the city,” he said, looking into the distance, his voice a little weak. “Think of all the people down there-just living, eating, screwing, farting, mowing the lawn, shopping. And all of them thinking that somebody else has it better, smarter. They’re not mean about it, just confused and lonely, stuck in the solitary confinement of their bodies, happy or sad, but always a little scared.”
I was taken aback and responded with a feeble joke. “I didn’t pack a philosophy book with my lunch. I’m a little weak on the meaning of life.”
“Yeah, life,” Pete muttered.
He sat down again. As the wind blew through the pines, it was obvious that Pete’s thoughts were elsewhere, and I did not want to intrude. Perhaps I was more sensitive than usual because the dry, electric air made things feel vividly present, as if somehow time had been frozen and we were living in the fixed moment of a photograph. Pete’s breathing was a little heavy, and there was just the hint of a rasp. Another blast of hot, dry air threatened to set him coughing, but it only raised a small dust devil on the ground in front of us. As I watched it twirl around, I suddenly realized what Pete was going to say.
“I’m dying,” he said flatly, staring into space.
I put my arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. There was nothing more to be said.
I could believe that Pete believed this about himself, and even that it might be partly true. The items disappearing from his apartment and the pillow lent some credence to what he was saying. On the other hand, what was left showed that at some point he must have had a little spare change. Of course, how he managed his life was none of my business, but by keeping everything to himself, it was tough to find anything to talk about.
Once again as if reading my mind, he said, “I’ve only been giving things away in the last year or so.” He paused as we negotiated a relatively steep bit of trail. “I had a nice Chinese vase that I gave to that lady who lives near the laundry room. That was the first thing,” he said as the ground flattened again.
“Yeah?” I said, thinking of that woman at the end of the hall.
“She needed something for flowers for a party. So I loaned her the vase, then told her she could keep it. That was the start.”
“What else have you given away?”
“Oh lots of stuff,” he said. “My silverware. The china…” and he continued with a lengthy list of utensils, clothing, board games, books, recordings, cameras, computer peripherals, old telephones, watches, even cuff links, on and on and on. “Anyway,” he said laughing at himself, “a lot of stuff.”
“It’s amazing there is anything left,” I said, more than a bit dazed.
“Well the furniture is harder to give away because it is so bulky.” He paused to think. “I wanted older stuff because I knew it would be made to last. What’s the saying? ‘Be careful what you wish for…’?”
He was smiling and almost in spite of myself, I found his lengthy description of all his gifts oddly compelling. We got so wrapped up in the list that when we reached the “windy gap,” we didn’t realize it at first. As if to remind us why we were there, a gust blew up hard from the valley below.
The suddenly bare mountainside made it clear we had reached the trail’s “saddle.” With the tops of hills to either side, and with a recess at the center, the gap lived up to the name. A few lonely pines stunted by the winds gripped tenaciously to the face of the hills, while to either side of the trail blue and purple mountainsides stretched to the horizon, like successive waves ready to crash on the beach.
Despite the sunshine and the hot dry air, the unceasing winds made it feel as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. “Now I see why they said to wear warm clothes!” I shouted, for the wind made it difficult to converse. After only a couple of minutes in the gap, we retreated a few hundred yards back into the woods, where trees shielded the trail from the wind and sun. We sat on a boulder, swigged some water and relaxed with a view of the valley below.
“I used to be a programmer,” Pete blurted out as I gulped down some water.
“A programmer? So, you’re one of the Masters of the Universe I was bitching about,” I said, laughing a little.
He snorted. “Only idiots think of themselves that way.” A gust of wind whipped through the trees. “I used to enjoy it,” he said, staring at the horizon. “Figuring out a puzzle, struggling with it and the rush when you finally get it right.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Yeah, but after a while you can only get so excited about a missing parenthesis.”
“I guess,” I said. “To be honest, I don’t know much about it.”
“Lucky you!” he said. “I mean sure, the more you do it, the better you can deal with bigger challenges. But staring at the screen through a fog of coffee and junk food day in, day out, it’s like you’re a tool for the machine. I wanted some fresh air. Besides…” he said, but trailed off.
“Besides what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Anyway,” he continued after a lengthy pause, “I just wanted to live a little. Not a party animal or anything. Just somebody who cares whether it’s raining or sunny.” He paused again. “Somebody normal.”
“I don’t think anybody’s normal,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
“I think there are lots of people who think they know what it means. And I think they hold it against anyone who doesn’t measure up. But deep down, they’re just as fucked up.”
Pete turned to me, smiling. “OK,” he said. “So let’s say I wanted to be one of those people who can fool themselves.”
He meant it as joke at his own expense, but his words struck me like a lightning bolt. “Like me!” I said after several moments of silent realization, amused and amazed at how much I fit my own description.
“You’ll put things back together,” Pete said. “That’s kind of what makes you normal.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Not with Sharon. But maybe. Sooner or later, you have to face your problems. Maybe that’s all that ‘normal’ means,” I said, feeling as if things were beginning to make sense for me.
“Hey, look we have a friend!” Pete said with excitement, interrupting my thoughts and pointing to a squirrel hunched on its hind legs beneath a low-hanging branch of a nearby pine. It stared at a cone on the branch, then suddenly leapt into the air to reach it. The branch couldn’t support the squirrel’s weight, and so it almost immediately fell off. When it finally succeeded in grasping the branch, the squirrel turned upside down to get at the cone, and fell again to the ground. The repeated efforts and failures made me want the silly animal to give up, but it finally succeeded after several false starts.
“I feel like I should applaud,” I said.
Pete laughed, but then started to cough. It was a particularly rough and nasty one, but after it had subsided, he stood up. “You can just see the city,” he said, looking into the distance, his voice a little weak. “Think of all the people down there-just living, eating, screwing, farting, mowing the lawn, shopping. And all of them thinking that somebody else has it better, smarter. They’re not mean about it, just confused and lonely, stuck in the solitary confinement of their bodies, happy or sad, but always a little scared.”
I was taken aback and responded with a feeble joke. “I didn’t pack a philosophy book with my lunch. I’m a little weak on the meaning of life.”
“Yeah, life,” Pete muttered.
He sat down again. As the wind blew through the pines, it was obvious that Pete’s thoughts were elsewhere, and I did not want to intrude. Perhaps I was more sensitive than usual because the dry, electric air made things feel vividly present, as if somehow time had been frozen and we were living in the fixed moment of a photograph. Pete’s breathing was a little heavy, and there was just the hint of a rasp. Another blast of hot, dry air threatened to set him coughing, but it only raised a small dust devil on the ground in front of us. As I watched it twirl around, I suddenly realized what Pete was going to say.
“I’m dying,” he said flatly, staring into space.
I put my arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. There was nothing more to be said.