Reckless Roads

JON here.

Five o'clock, quitting time at the newspaper. I'm in my office, two doors back from the receptionist's desk, where I can see the comings and goings on Main Street. I'm doodling, pretending to work, necktie lying loose on my desk, my coffee cup on a coaster, staring out the window toward my route out of town. From 1800 miles away, San Francisco whispers my name. I find myself drifting away into an old teenage daydream, whimsical fantasies of freedom, imagining the scent of espresso, artsy lofts, and beat poetry in that City by the Bay. But each ring of the phone at Helen's reception desk reminds me I'm caged in the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys, scent of ink, newsprint, and cigarette smoke from the bullpen.

I'm waiting for David.

He turned onto Main Street in his sloppy jalopy. Bang! The engine backfired. I flashed on "Wind in the Willows," reckless Mr. Toad riding free in his antique red motorcar. Helen trilled, "Mr. Clarkson" -- that's me -- "brace yourself, your pal's rolling in!"

AAH-OOO-GAH! David's horn honked like an overexcited goose on a caffeine high. A little discretion, please, Dave? I snatched my satchel, uncluttered by the poetry, music, or notes for the novel I was going to write. And oh boy, let's not forget the camera, my companion on this uncharted journey. I stuffed it into my bag, praying that Helen wouldn't unleash an inquisition.

Too late.

"Where are you off to?" she queried, her voice piercing the hallways.

Where was I off to? I had no clue beyond David's advice to wear my Levi shorts, the ones with the button fly.

"Photo assignment!" I blurted out, hoping it sounded plausible.

Helen was incredulous. She pulled a spare tie out of her backup stash. "Your leash, Mr. son-of-the-boss." I thanked her, folded it and put it in my blazer pocket. I was almost out the door before she called out her catchphrase, "Don't waste your wad!"

My wad. Yes, my incredibly valuable and mysterious wad. Destiny was calling. It was written in the stars.

§

David and I took to the hills, bumping over crumbling asphalt roads, the scenery around us breathtaking, lush greenery and towering mountain peaks in the distance. I tasted pine sap and eucalyptus from the wind that whipped my face. David's jalopy groaned and clanked with each pothole, the muffler dragging, but we pushed on, laughing each time our butts left the seat. The road, climbing, gave way to dirt and sharp rocks, increasingly jagged. Boulders of granite loomed like sentries watching over us.

At the top of a hill loomed the remains of Rockhaven Asylum. My spine shivered at the sight before me. Grass had sprouted up around the foundation. The crumbling brick walls were overgrown with vines and weeds. Broken windows revealed the dark interior, a great place for bats to hang during the day.

David drove through the front gate, tires crunching over broken glass and debris. Closer, I could smell mold and decay where water had seeped into the brickwork. He stopped, his hands tapping on the steering wheel. Gave me a sideways glance. Taking a deep breath, he turned off the engine.

Silence. Then the faint twitter of birds nesting, a dance of shadows beneath the vines.

Dave: "My father was a doctor here."

The revelation caught me off guard. My mind raced with questions. Why hadn't he mentioned this before? What kind of doctor was his father? David's eyes were cast down, lost in thought. I sensed he was holding something back.

"What happened?"

"The Feds went after him. He was experimenting on the patients. With LSD. "

David pulled on the parking brake, done talking.

"Where's the surprise?" I asked.

"Down there." His eyes pointed to a grassland hillside, chigger territory. A family of deer grazed on the knoll. Downhill past that, I flashed on a sign: "Private Property -- the Thespian woods."

To me the woods were dark and foreboding, thick trees casting shadows. I imagined mist hovering around the base of the ancient trunks, dark with the musty smell of decaying leaves and moist soil. Something about them made my skin crawl, the creaking and groaning of branches in an unfelt wind, as if nature itself whispered secrets that sent shivers through me.

"What's down there?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Looks spooky."

"It's like, Transylvania," proposed Dave. He climbed out of the car and walked around to my side, wrestling open the door for me. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "That was Dad's land. It's only haunted if you bring your own ghosts."

We gathered all the luggage we could carry: the rumble-seat cushions, Dave's guitar and sketch pad, an army-surplus blanket, and a backpack full of food and camping supplies.

"You loaded?"

"Primed to shoot," I teased.

"Terrible pun," said Dave.

We trekked down to an overgrown clearing in the forest where an ancient, fallen tree lay, its bark stripped off by weather and age, exposing the smooth, sun-bleached wood beneath. We set our burdens beside it, a good place to rest, for us.

"One more thing before we sit," David declared. "Deet."

I put my hand up to stop him, alarmed. "Isn't that stuff poison?"

"Nah. Mr. Ralph Nader, label reader. This is not DDT."

He pulled up my shirt to my ribs and stuck his finger between my waist and the top of my cut-off jeans, aiming the spray can down toward my crotch.

"Gotta grease the piston," he said. His hands fumbled to undo the top steel button.

"Beep beep beep, forgasm warning," I teased. "It might not be poison, but it sure won't taste good."

He tossed the can over his shoulder, then grinned and blushed. "Spare a drop of butter milk, then?"

I chuckled and rolled my eyes. "I'm fresh out of dairy products at the moment."

David snapped his fingers in faux disappointment. "Darn!"

"Tell you what," I murmured, pulling him closer. "How about you and I churn up some fresh butter later?"

"It's a date," he said with a wink.

Unable to resist, David's fingers found their way back to my Levi's, managing to pop the gateway button open. I brushed his hand away. "That's the teaser," I said, buttoning up again. I craved his touch, but the wait would make our union sweeter. "Keep your powder dry." David threw up his hands in mock surrender. We laughed, and I saw myself grabbing his head under my arm and grinding my knuckles in his hair, but I didn't.

His face and voice took on a serious note, ending the game. "Turn around, Jon," he instructed. "Here's the surprise. Ever seen one of these?"

At the edge of the clearing lay the charred remains of a crashed helicopter, a Bell 47, a small 3-seater craft used for rescue and medivac, disintegrating deep in the forest, where oaks formed a canopy and speckled sunlight filtered in. Up close, the chopper's battered metal skin was held together by the exposed bones of internal support beams, saplings growing up through them. Gnarled rotor blades stuck out of the tangled trees. Copper wires hung like vines between the branches.

"My father died here." Dave lifted his gaze. "Chopper didn't make it over the power lines. Flipped him."

"What was he doing?"

"Fleeing the FBI."

"No cleanup and recovery? Why is this wreck still here?"

"It's on Rockhaven property," David explained. "Liability stuff. Owners freaked out about what the feds would uncover. Rockhaven lawyered up, blocked access. The courts won't budge."

The sun hung low over the canopy, streaks of orange and red, spider webbed, blooming in the sky. David pulled out his sketchpad and got busy on the wreckage while I took a pee break in the woods. A small airplane droned overhead. I looked up. A scarlet oak leaf drifted down like a helicopter on fire. I flashed on my brother Buddy when he'd checked out in a chopper crash in 'Nam.

"Remember when I used to tell you about my daydreams?" Buddy asked me one night, on leave from the war.

"Yeah. You were gonna be Teddy Roosevelt at the Battle of San Juan Hill. How's that going?'

"Great, kid," Buddy said. And then he was dead.

The leaf hit the ground spinning and in a flash, young Buddy came rushing back to me - tramping through woods to our secret waterfall, sharing the thrill of chucking M-80's into the glade pool below.

Another flash. I imagined the chopper yoke jammed through Captain Buddy's throat, the dust-up team pulling a tarp over his charred face. The sound of blades chopping air, smoke and heat from the flames, the stench of fuel and burnt flesh.

Muffling my sobs so David wouldn't hear, I let the tears flow until I was hollow, memories of Buddy's violent death swirling among the phantom roar of the flames. Wiping my eyes, I steadied myself with a breath and returned to the clearing where David waited.

David saw my face and took in my grief. He laid down his pencil and shared his darkness - the crash that left a child's delicate bones crushed, his mother forever silenced, his childhood buried alive.

He described the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of his mother's car crushing against the bridge railing, metal screeching as it twisted and collapsed. I saw it all. Glass exploded outward in a glittering spray as the windows shattered. Four-year-old David was ejected, his small body flung loose onto the rocky ditch, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth as he spit broken teeth into his bloody hands.

In a daze, he crawled from the gully, drawn to the ruined chassis. The mangled door hung ajar. Behind the wheel, a bloody horror awaited - his mother's face streaked red, her eyes vacant and staring. This was the woman who had kissed him after she'd buttoned his shirt every morning.

My brother's flaming chopper flashed again in my mind, and here, I imagined David's father in a desperate escape. The trees breaking against the aircraft, his fearful screams, the crash into earth. Three lives cut short -- David's mom, my brother, a hero; and David's dad, a fugitive. Holding David's hand, in silence we connected in grief, shadows spreading deep into the clearing. I turned to find his eyes glistening with barely contained tears. Two souls wounded but no longer alone.

"It's getting cold." He pulled his hand back, straightened, gave my arm a squeeze and stood. "I'll get some kindling."

§

Dave and I built a campfire. I watched him blow on the kindling, his cheeks puffing out, the dry leaves and twigs crackling as the flames sprang to life, fire glow dancing in his eyes.

"Hey," I said, grabbing my camera, eager to capture David's rugged beauty. "Why don't I take some photos of you here in the firelight?

David smiled. "I'm game."

"Hmm...take off your shirt, that will look more brooding and romantic."

"Like this?"

"Perfect. Here, put on my blazer. It'll add some GQ flair."

"How do I look?"

"Great!" The juxtaposition was captivating - David's rough-hewn looks gone lux.

I took more shots: one foot resting on the log, lounging on his back, elbows on the ground, his head up, eyes closed, his face warmed by the flickering flames.

"Do I get copies of my photos?" asked David.

"Sure."

"Autographed?"

"I'll sign right now on your hot dog," I quipped.

"Promises, promises," David wisecracked.

I sank onto the log beside him, our silly mood settling to silence. Cicadas and tree frogs sang their chorus, loud and strong, softening to a low buzz, almost stopping, then starting up again.

§

In the twilight, my thumb on his, I looked across the acres and acres of empty woods and meadows beyond the river. An owl hooted in the distance. A spark floated up like an exploding star. With it I sent a silent prayer.

"Let the love settle into you.

Let love like a blackbird of night bless you with darkness.

Let the love that made you, love for you, love for the meadow, for the trees, for the woods, for the river, for the rocks, for the dirt and the air, the love for all of this flow into you and blossom."

A howl pierced the silence.

"Sounds like a hungry coyote. Ready to eat?" David asked.

"Yes."

He busied himself preparing the ingredients for our forest feast: wieners and buns. My eyes lingered on his agile frame. Underneath his rugged exterior was an artistic soul and a sharper intellect than he let on, his survival skills honed from fending for himself in lands where playtime was as scarce as shade in the desert.

I nestled in close as we held the hot dogs and buns over the glowing fire. They browned, fat dripped down sizzling, making the flames dance. David rotated our sticks, ensuring they cooked evenly. My hot dog tip caught fire. I blew it out and inspected the blackened end.

"Burnt offering," I joked. I turned sideways on the log and presented the charred wiener to David.

"Fire Department!" Dave cracked. He popped the charcoaled tip in his mouth like a popsicle, the unburnt end jutting out, and turned to face me. I scooted closer and felt a rush of arousal as his knees touched mine. We took dainty bites off each end, moving closer until we reached each other's lips -- tongue tips touching, the campfire reflected in his dark, blue eyes.

Our lips met. He swallowed the wiener stub and opened his mouth. I blew my breath into him. Our tongues wrapped around each other, pressing and prodding, teasing and taunting in a tango of fervor and fire. With every breath he exhaled his chest rose and fell faster, reverberating through me as if I were part of him.

Breathless, we broke apart. David brushed his fingertips across my cheeks and drew me into a softer, more tender kiss.

A rustling in the trees behind us stopped us. We turned toward the woods. A stag strode into the clearing, majestic, and fixed its gaze on us, antlers erect, then flung his head upward and leapt back into the forest.

"Magic," Dave whispered, and took my hand. He stood and lifted me up with him. "Let's put out the fire."

I grinned and said, "The one on the ground or the one in my body?"

He unfurled a smile.

"Both."

He picked up his guitar while I got a big branch and spread the ashes, dimming the crackling fire to a quiet, orange glow. David sat back on the log and tuned the strings.

The forest's evening symphony swelled. David joined the chorus, strumming his guitar, his clear, tenor voice overriding the tree frogs and cicadas.

"The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the endless skies."

I met David's eyes. I put my fingers on his lips and picked up the second verse:

"The first time ever I kissed your mouth

I felt the earth move in my hand

Like the trembling heart of a captive bird

That was there at my command, my love,

That was there at my command."

He strummed a break, his eyes never leaving mine. We knew what came next, and when the chords resolved to the melody, I opened my mouth to sing, but too much feeling -- love, gratitude, happiness -- closed my throat, I could barely breathe. He raised his head to the stars and sang,

"The first time ever I lay with you

I felt your heart so close to mine

And I knew our joy would fill the earth

And last 'til the end of time, my love."

Silence. The tree frogs had yielded the night to us, but I was frozen, my heart pounding. David got up, turned away from me, laid his guitar away from the fire pit, checked the surroundings like a cat planning an ambush, and from his backpack pulled a tube of KY Jelly and a condom. "You up for this?" His gaze shifted from my face to my lap and back again.

I took a deep breath. I felt myself biting my bottom lip. To me, KY jelly had always meant butt butter. Was I prepared to go all the way? Who would top and who would bottom? Once down this intimate road, our relationship would never be the same.

David tilted his head. "Only if you want to."

"I'm up for it," I resolved. "I'll top."

He nodded. "Make me want it," he begged. "You know what to do."

We crawled into our makeshift tent -- David's army-surplus blanket slung over a low-lying branch, one end held up by the tie that Helen had so thoughtfully provided. Inside, on the ground, lay a bed, the rumble seat cushions side by side. His eyes fluttered shut, savoring the sensation of my fingers exploring his face. I stroked his chest. His moans told me he hungered for more.

I slipped the tip of my thumb under his earlobe, an all-points trigger. My fingers went to his throat, pressing the pulse point, then the back of his neck, brushing up through his nape. He rolled his head, his fingertips tracing my jawline. I leaned into his touch. He reached down and cupped his hand over my crotch, undoing each button like a child with a new toy, his hands shaking, purring like a kitten, tugging my balls. I stuck my tongue in his ear. His eyes fluttered shut. "Take me now," he whispered.

To be continued.