Blake Jensen had pissed me off but it didn’t make me any less concerned for him. My sense of responsibility showed up for him the minute he arrived in my domain. It didn’t help matters that he was the son of the big boss, but any person out in these conditions would get my level of worry. My concerns weren’t lessened by the fact that I was attracted to him as well, despite his glowing personality.
My watch at the large window as I scanned for signs of life from Blake became a chore, so I sat in the old tattered recliner I had carried up more than a hundred steps and pulled out my cell phone. Thanks to Elon Musk and his latest satellite, I had all the bars I needed to read depressing texts about my inability to attract dates.
He thought you were a fuddy duddy and kind of boring.
I reread the text from Matt, a buddy of mine in the city that he’d sent last week before I began my three-month stint at my post.
Said you were too earthy, or woodsy? Some shit like that I think.
Matt wasn’t exactly the type to soften a blow. In fact, I think he enjoyed making people feel less than. Matt had lost a leg in a car accident four years prior during our junior year at Washington State University and had plenty of reasons to be angry, and he shared every one of them with his friends. Perhaps because I was one of the few that stuck around to put up with his negativity was why I now received the bulk of his despair.
I’d become a sort of Matt-whisperer when it came to dealing with him. I was sorry for him but also went out of my way to encourage him and his goals. Like me, he’d been an avid outdoorsman, but for some reason decided he couldn’t do anything for himself any longer when it came to his favorite activities. I wasn’t the type to give up on him yet, but he was making it hard to like him much. Today’s visitor had Matt’s vibe of pushing people away. Like Matt, Blake was angry about something, and I was either curious enough or stupid enough to give a shit.
I glanced through the dozen text reasons that a blind date with one of Matt’s work peers hadn’t gone well. I guess I was boring. Surprise, surprise, mystery date. You weren’t the first to make that claim. My blind date was a partier and liked to regale his dates with stories about how many guys wanted him from the bars. Of course, those same men were beneath him, he’d shared. He was a catch and made a half-million dollars a year at Microsoft. “Because I’m bored,” he’d answered, after I asked why he went to clubs so often. I think I earned my label as boring that very night because he never called for a second date.
I’d never bothered to respond to Matt’s inside information about my shortcomings. He didn’t need to remind me that my social calendar was bereft of dates with interested men. Most of my dates were dudes that hit on me in the city while I grocery shopped, or when I worked parttime at REI, a purveyor of outdoor goods. Every Seattleite could spot REI as they drove by the building with the six-story indoor rock climb easily seen through the glass tower from the interstate.
My ego wasn’t nonexistent and I had plenty of catcalls and interest from admirers. I knew I was a good-looking guy. People had been telling me that since I sprouted to six-three my sophomore year of high school. However, I lacked the ability for the bullshit side of dating. I couldn’t play by those rules and needed a real connection that didn’t start with my cock either in their mouths or their asses on date number one.
I came close once about two years ago, but he wanted us to live in the closet, going so far as asking if we could date women as a show of our masculinity and to keep up the charade. I went along for eighteen months because I was head over hills in love. But when he showed up at our apartment one evening and introduced me to a coworker chick of his and explained that they were dating, that was the end of that farce. For some reason I hadn’t believed him about the hiding because it took a year and a half for him to bring a woman into our lives.
There’s Pete in accounting. He has low standards. I could talk to him for you.
I gazed at Matt’s text from yesterday and decided he was mean and spiteful, wondering why I hadn’t deleted the entire text chain. “You’re an asshole too,” I mumbled, reaching for my binoculars for another look outside.
Snow was falling with huge flakes, the kind that fall slowly like fluffy fairy dust, quickly accumulating on the cold earth below me. I stepped outside to the deck and looked closely at the thermometer. Twenty-four degrees. The smoke from the campfire was gone and the sky was dark.
CHAPTER NINE: Blake
There were two things that I hated. My life since Mark died and being wrong. A third thing, a person actually, was vying to make the list, but I should just include Cadet Dirk in the part about being wrong. He’d advised me about the snow and being ill prepared to spend two nights without a tent while wrapped up in a deficient sleeping bag.
The tarp I’d suspended from two trees was sort of helping since there was no wind. The snow became heavier, free falling in silence, and lending an even quieter feeling to my surroundings. Snow had the effect of dampening sound once it accumulated, and the added quiet would normally be welcome, but the amount of snowfall coupled with the plunging temperatures had me concerned. I couldn’t get warm and this was not the environment one wanted to be in if they were slim and malnourished.
My physician had become alarmed at my annual physical last month, encouraging me to add twice the calories and to reduce my incessant hiking. He didn’t understand that food, like all things in my life, had lost its appeal. I figured if I hiked and then hiked some more, mile after mile, that I’d eventually lose the shadow of grief that had become my second skin. Sadly, I was failing at that too, but I did promise to try harder. A lie I’d also told my mother.
I dug my finger into the lowest rib in my cage. The pressure was a short trip because the rib and all of its siblings were visible without a probing finger. I’d begun to layer my clothing by adding vests over long-sleeved shirts or other light jackets. I purchased the finest gear that not only complimented my stylish layering technique but hid my truth. Heck, even Cadet Dirk made a wise-ass comment about my expensive clothing, and that was something considering he was covered in khaki from knee to collar. Khaki that barely covered his manliness. I hated khaki, so of course it’d be his official uniform for whatever job title he held.
I wondered where he went when he walked back into the woods. I knew enough to know that the Forest Service kept fire-watch towers on several peaks in the Cascades, and that the Park Service kept rangers in cabins on public lands. He could be either actually. One thing he most likely was, was warmer than I was.
The first shiver came out of nowhere, surprising me that it had arrived without warning and so soon. I couldn’t remember if I should wear clothes in the sleeping bag or strip down to nothing. Was it strip down if you owned the bag with the foil insert? Or strip if you didn’t have the extra barrier? My cheap bag had no extra barrier that I could tell. The heavy flakes that landed on the outside of it quickly melted and left dark stains of water. That couldn’t be good.
Shuddering and damn near rattling my teeth to the point of extraction, I crawled out of the bag and untied the tarp to lay over me. Perhaps with it as a waterproof shield I could survive the night. I’d given up on stoking a campfire that without dry firewood wouldn’t stay lit. “You’ve done it now,” I mumbled, my lips trembling as I slid back into the damp bag. Damp sleeping bag? Get out of the bag, Blake.
I jumped to my feet, nearly tripping as I removed my lower body from the Sears special. I needed to remain clothed and wrap myself up like a burrito in the tarp. Or was it get naked and then wrap? I couldn’t fucking remember, and thinking was becoming more difficult as I shivered uncontrollably. The blue plastic material was definitely waterproof and was probably my best shot in these plummeting temperatures. Before laying the tarp flat so I could become a human Fruit Roll-Up, I scanned my surroundings for any source of artificial light. Where had the beefy man gone?
Nothing but the most beautiful snowflakes filled my view. Frozen geometric shapes that wanted to kill me if I didn’t get my shit together. I was an experienced hiker but lately I had become sloppy and careless. I’d left my tent behind on purpose. I’d left a fire starter at home too because I imagined that I needed a challenge. What I needed was a fucking lobotomy. No amount of therapy or mind-numbing hikes could erase my sorrow. No matter how far, how difficult, or what location I hiked, my shadow of misery walked beside me, happy to accompany me on an endless journey of suffering.
My backpack had four inches of snow on it, with the blue sides only visible in a two-inch-wide stripe where the snow around it raced to join the pile on top. I shivered one of those deep shivers that you can feel starting at a tingly spot on your scalp as it sneaks down your spine and to your toes.
Laying at the corner of the spread-out tarp, I tucked my feet inside a folded section and then held the edge and rolled, over and over and over again, until I came to a stop where giant tree roots blocked my path. Maybe there were four complete wraps, maybe even five, but I was continuing to tremble uncontrollably. Not smart, Blake. Not smart.
My face was covered loosely because I was afraid of not being able to breath inside the tarp. Did waterproof also mean oxygen proof? I lay still, doing my best to see how long I could stop shaking, counting the time intervals in an attempt to gauge if I was warming up or not. I wasn’t.
The thought that I should attempt to hike back to the car came to mind, but the snow depth was now over eight inches with layers still descending like a prison around me. I couldn’t see the ground any longer. No trail, no visible rocks or branches that could easily trip me up and send me ass over heels down a steep embankment.
I lay still, concentrating on slow breathing and whether I was warmer. Whatever panic had been there a few minutes before was slipping away and into an abyss of imaginary comfort. “This isn’t so bad,” I whispered.
CHAPTER TEN: Dirk
