Shooting Matt Ch. 25

***

I got some good shots but Jesus, that place is depressing. Lincoln Way was nothing but abandoned houses, across the river from piles of slag and debris from a closed steel mill. If Glenna's intention was to lower my mood even further, she succeeded. Clairton was on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. I sat in my truck for a long time, wondering if I should call Kent, see if I could drive over and spend the afternoon or night. I didn't. It seems to me he wants some alone time. I'm guessing, or worrying, he's spending the time re-examining our relationship. It's moved fast, scary fast. I'm afraid that's the problem; he's afraid. I'm not sure what I'll do if he tells me he wants to cool it. I guess, I'll cool it and hope it heats up again. It's either that or walk away. For the life of me, those are the only options I can see.

Of course, it's also possible I'm being an idiot. He's not re-thinking 'us'. He's just busy trying to get ready to sell his condo. But I could help him with that. What if he doesn't want my help? Is that bad?

Fuck.

I plug my laptop into the portable power supply and start to work on the photos I'd taken. The sun is too bright, so I step into the tent and sit cross-legged on the floor with my laptop sitting on the cot. I stop worrying about Kent as I work my way through the shots. Some of them are powerful, depressing, but powerful. I recall some of my photos from the gritty parts of Cleveland. I resist the urge to open those photos. I work my way through the morning's effort and select the three I like the most. I work on those. I make multiple copies, B&W, tinted. I play with filter settings I normally ignore. I see various combinations, some of the same photo but with different filters, some with similar filtering but different images. I can see how they'd look on a wall. I open the folder containing my Cleveland photos. I know just the ones I want. I kill another hour or so working on them.

It's not very far to Youngstown. It's been hit as hard, harder perhaps, than Cleveland or Pittsburgh. Scranton? Ohio and Pennsylvania are dotted with cities that died or are dying, along with their industries. It would be a depressing series of photos but the idea was exciting. I could juxtaposition the islands of beauty, the beautiful copse of small dogwoods from today for instance, then pull back to show the rot that surrounds it. I'm excited by the idea. No doubt it's already been done. It's not as if the decay of American industry hasn't been going on throughout my lifetime. It has probably been done better than I'm capable of, as well. I don't care. I have my tent, my camper, and a little bit of rental income going into the bank every quarter. Why not?

An extended road trip won't be very conducive to a budding romance; that's assuming I'm in a budding romance. It's also not very conducive to becoming a partner, a real partner, in a resort. Liam would be fine. I know he likes me around. I know he loves me but he's always been an independent soul, though Matt might perhaps rub a bit of that away. It's not as if I'd be halfway around the world. You can drive across Pennsylvania in half a day.

I see why living my previous, half-asleep, existence was so addictive. Making decisions is fucking hard.

I shut everything down and lock my computer and camera gear up in the truck. I duck back into the tent, shed my jeans and pull on my swim trunks. There's a mixed crowd of kids farting around on the swim platform. I have nothing against youth except jealousy but I'm not in the mood for testosterone-induced courtship displays. I walk back up the dock. Leon is organizing and repairing the fishing gear the camp rents.

"Hey, Leon. How ya doin'?"

"Just fine, Randy. Thanks."

"Are any of the kayaks available?"

"Sure, any of them tied up are up for grabs. Take your pick."

"I don't know the lake very well anymore. If you wanted a quiet spot to get your thoughts in order, where would you go?"

"You know the rock slide, the one where Matt hurt his back?" I nod. I note he didn't say where he punched Matt. I think that's a good thing. It was a momentary lapse, an accident. Not being privy to my inner dialogue, Leon continues speaking. "The trail dead ends on the west side of the slide. If you kayak to the slide, there's a tiny area on the eastern edge where the slide ripped out the trees. It's not a beach exactly but there's a few spots where you can stretch out, or sit with your back to a rock and contemplate your inner eye."

"Thanks, buddy. That sounds perfect."

"Grab a beach towel." Before I can protest he adds, "Don't worry I'm adding it to your rental tab." He goes back to peer at the dismantled reel lying on the table in front of him. I make my way around to the gift shop. I hear pans rattling in the kitchen and guess that Glenna and Mary Beth are back there baking cinnamon rolls. Rosalita is cleaning. I grab a towel and let her know Leon is putting it on my tab. Through the window behind her, I see Liam and Matt playing with Fernando in the pool. I smile but for some reason behind my smile I can't seem to rid myself of a kernel of sadness that's nestled in behind my chest bone.

It's further to the rock slide than I remembered. My shoulders have a pleasant ache when the nose of the kayak bumps into the muddy bank. I don't have to worry about getting my shoes wet; I'm not wearing any. I should be. The muddy bank is littered with rocks, big and small. I'll just have to be careful. I pull the kayak up far enough that I don't have to worry about the wind blowing it out into the lake. To my right, the rock slide looms. On the left, the rocky hillside is festooned with scrubby trees and underbrush. The brush is making inroads on the scar the rock slide has left but I'm able to find a reasonably smooth, reasonably flat spot to spread my blanket.

I pick my way past the rocks and swim out to view the rock slide from the lake. It reminds me of an old battleship, the really old ones, where the bow slants forward instead of backward. A massive boulder, or chunk of the rock that had once made up part of the ridge above the slide, sits where the bridge would be. The view would be amazing. I can see why climbing the slide is tempting, despite the risks. Behind the rocks, the ridge rises. The switchbacks weave their way down the ridge. I don't see anyone hiking the trail today. I'm not sure why. It's a beautiful day, too beautiful for my baleful mood. I roll over and float on my back, enjoying the sun. I dive for the bottom and estimate the water is twenty-feet deep. The water looks deep in front of the slide but I don't see how water in front of the slide isn't full of rocks. The slide didn't stop when it reached the lakeshore, as if it was afraid of getting wet. It would have run out, under the surface of the water. To jump from the top of rock slide would be stupid. Climbing the rock slide would be just as stupid, if not more stupid. Why, then am I thinking of doing both those things?

I float on my back, looking at the mass of rocks rising above me. From the top I'd be able to scan the water for hidden rocks that I may have missed swimming back and forth in front of the rock slide. I'm not prone to reckless stupidity. Or I didn't used to be. I've had a romp with a college kid and in the blink of an eye, I've sold my house, quit my job, offered to put my life savings (minus the 401K and company pensions I can't touch) into a hanging on by its teeth resort, and, to top it all off, jump into a romance with a man still grieving for his partner. In the cold light of reason, climbing that rock pile and jumping into deep water is damn near responsible thinking.

I drop my head backwards and do a reverse loop under the water. Instead of clearing my head, I succeed in filling my ears with cold water. I swim to the shore. In keeping with my mood, I stub a toe on a rock and then step on a nice, small, pointy one with my other foot. Without giving it any thought, I begin to climb through the brush, angling my way upward, not climbing on the rocks but parallel to them. I climb until I run into a vertical rock face. It's too tall for me to climb. I scan the rock slide. I'm a little more than half way to the top of it. The rocks are fairly large. I begin to wind my way through them, over them, working my way up the ridge when I can. It seems a safe bet that the higher I go on the ridge the less of the rock slide I'll have to climb. I end up facing a wedge consisting of the rock wall on one side and an impressive slab of rock that was ripped away by the slide on the other. The slab is taller than I am but if I can make my way to the top of it, I should be on top of the slide itself. The rock is striated, affording me small, and sharp-edged, finger and toeholds. I miss judge one and peel back a good portion of the toenail on my right big toe. The pain is sudden and sharp enough that I nearly fall. That's my only setback. A minute or two later and I'm pulling myself over the top. I sit down on the rough rock and take a look at my toe. The outer corner is creased where it bent back. It looks pretty minor for something that hurt so fucking much. I press on it and wiggle the nail a little. I'll need to take some scissors to it when I get back or I'll keep snagging it on shit.

I stand and survey the top of the rockslide. I pick my way across the smaller rocks, to the flat top of the large boulder that looked like a battleship bridge from below. The view is amazing. You can see across the lake and all the way to where the western end veers out of sight to the south. If not for the tree crowned headland to my east, it would be easy to see the resort from here. The top of rock is ten, maybe twelve-feet, across.

Instead of walking to the edge and examining the water for hidden rocks, I take off at a run. When I reach the end of the rock I leap as far as I can. I hold my nose with one hand, cover my balls with the other and point my toes.

It seems like it's taking an awfully long time to hit the water.

***

"What the fuck, may I ask, are you doing?"

It's the old man with the engineer's cap of pillow ticking.

"Jumping off a rock."

"Why? You trying to break your neck? Your back?"

"No, I jumped feet first."

"From thirty feet in the air, into unknown water. You're not stupid. So, again, if I may ask, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I have no idea. It seemed like the thing to do." I look around and see nothing. "Am I dead?"

"Of course you are! You're in Harry Potter's fucking train station and I'm fucking Dumbledore. No, you fucking moron, you're not dead."

"I don't see what you're pissed about, I don't think it's that unreasonable a question to be honest. I'm clearly not in the water, not if I'm talking and breathing. So, I could be dead. I suppose I could be dying and my brains is going all wonky on me."

"Your brain is fucking wonky alright. You got that shit right at least."

"I've been wondering if you're my guardian angel but your vocabulary is a bit rough for an angel, at least my conception of an angel."

"Oh, well, of course, by all means, let us descend into solipsism, shall we? Your concept of 'angel' is the standard to which 'angelhood' must adhere. Jesus fucking Christ, the arrogance of humanity."

"So, does that mean you are an angel?"

"Oh, for fuck sake. No, I'm not an angel, not if you mean some ball-less twit hovering about with snow white wings and a fucking lyre. I happen to be able to get a glimpse of how things could be and a certain ability to try to nudge the future in that direction. Does that make me an angel? Fuck if I know. Before you ask, I don't know if there's a fucking God or not. I discern a certain pattern to reality and a certain role I appear to be allotted to play but for all I know, I'm full of shit. For all I know, this is all my own drug-addled dream. Try that shit out if you like solipsism so goddamn much."

"So, you sort of are a guardian angel?"

"Fine, if that makes you happy, knock yourself out. But, to be clear, I'm not your guardian angel."

"What's with the engineer's outfit?"

"I like trains."

"Okay, right on. Whose guardian angel are you then?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm Fernando's grandson's guardian angel." His says the words as if he can't believe he's been forced to stoop so low.

"Wow, no shit?"

"No shit. Your son, not Liam, your son with Glenna and Leon, will grow to be Fernando's best friend. He will help Fernando deal with some very dark times. This will allow the woman who is to fall in love with Fernando do so. Without your son, Fernando may not survive the dark times and if he does, the probability is he'll be too angry and bitter for anyone to fall in love with. If that doesn't happen, he doesn't have children and if he doesn't have children he can't have a grandson, who may well save this worthless rock of a world someday. So, in a nutshell, I only give a shit about you because if you're in the picture, it's far more likely your son will grow up to be a good man, who will in turn be a good friend to Fernando. Capiche?"

"So, I'm what a supernumerary in my own story?"

The old man shakes his head. "I should let you break your fucking leg. If you were a supernumerary in Fernando's grandson's story would I be wasting my time on your dense ass? Even if you were unimportant in his story, how could you be in your own story? Goddamn, pull your mopey head out of your ass."

"You're a lot angrier than I remember."

"Yeah? Well, I was in the middle of consoling a distraught and very nubile young widow when I realized you were about to do something remarkably lame-brained for an otherwise, surprisingly competent human being. You know how tiring it is fucking with the space-time continuum? I mean, seriously, any idea?"

"You have sex?"

"That's it, fuck this imbecilic world, I can't take this any longer, break your leg. Here's a little warning though, there's a roughly, 83.6% chance you'll become an opioid addict, a 13.4% you'll drown, and a 3% chance, you'll survive, not become an addict, walk with a cane and manage to remain a decent human being. Good-bye."

"Settle down, Clarence. I don't want to break my leg. Seriously, though, are you fucking with me? Is any of this real? Fernando's grandson? What do I need to do?"

I wake, lying atop my blanket, blinking at the bright sunlight. "Do? Figure it out. Oh, and call me, Clarence again and I'll break both your legs," echoes in my head.

***

"Kent?"

"Yeah, what's up, Randy?"

"I'm feeling all fucked up. I want to drive to Pittsburgh. I want to see you. Is that okay?"

"Uh, of course. I appreciate the warning but do you really think you need to ask?"

"I'm not sure. That's part of why I'm feeling all fucked up."

"You know the Chinese place we went to?"

"Sure."

"Stop and pick up the pork with hot peppers and fried rice for me and whatever you backwards heathens in Cleveland eat. I have plenty of beer. What do you think? An hour? Hour and a half?"

"Hour and a half, if I have to stop for Chinese. Egg rolls? Pot stickers?"

"Pot stickers, steamed not fried."

"Sounds good. Um, and thanks."

"For what? You're buying dinner. Drive safe. See you soon."

The drive passed in a blur and at the same time took forever. I stand in front of Kent's door, carrying the same plastic bag every Chinese restaurant in the country uses for take-out, feeling vaguely queasy from the smell. My chest is tight, I feel like I did working up the courage to ring the doorbell to pick up my date for prom, knowing her father hated my guts. The current me has as hard a time lifting his hand to the buzzer as the seventeen-year-old me had.

I push the button. Kent buzzes me in, too fast. I walk to the elevator wondering if he'd been watching me standing at the door on the video monitor. When I step off the elevator, he's waiting. He gives me a one-armed hug and a kiss as he takes the take-out bag from my hand. He's left the door to his condo open.

"Come on, let's get you settled. Get some food in you. Get some beer. Beer okay? Wine?"

"Beer is fine," I mumble.

"Beer it is and then let's see what's got you all tied up in knots, uh, no pun intended."

I smile for him. He's not the best jokester in the world. I appreciate the effort.

Despite my queasy stomach, I do feel better after eating. No doubt the beer helps as well.

"So, Randy, what's going on? Are you upset about the toys?"

"Huh? No. I told you, the toys, as you call them, were a blast." I shake my head. "No, I just feel, unmoored. I don't mean because I've rented out my house. I feel like I'm taking you by surprise. You clearly still haven't finished grieving over Brad, not that you ever will, but I guess I'm worried you'll start to resent me for being the cause of you having to go through his clothes, consider selling your condo, that sort of thing. There's also part of me thinking, 'shit you just got unstuck from your house, your job, are you really ready to become attached again?' and then I remind myself there's a gigantic difference between being in a rut and being emotionally attached to a person. It's...I don't know..." My voice trails off and I'm left to stare at my dirty plate.

"Wow. I thought I was the one that spends too much time in my head," Kent chuckles. I want to be pissed that he chuckled but I can't. It's clear he's not laughing at me or my worries. "I have similar concerns, you know. Do I risk letting myself get close to someone again, after what happened with Brad? It's always less risky to not be attached. It's lonely but less risky. I don't think we get to pick who we get attached to, though. We may choose to ignore the attachment or try to break it now, while it's less painful, but the attachment already exists." He touches the back of my hand. "I don't resent you for forcing me to deal with unfinished business. You've been more gentle and more understanding than I could have hoped for. Now," he says, standing. "Let's brush our teeth and go to bed. We don't have to do anything but I want to feel you beside me tonight. Okay?"

I nod, which is all I trust myself to do.

***

We manage to find one of those positions, impossible to describe and never to be recapitulated, that is remarkable comfortable, despite the akimbo limbs. Kent's fingers idly stroke my back. I tell him about my idea for traveling around the region, visiting the decaying glory of our industrial past and looking for islands of beauty. He likes the idea. I tell him of my fear of trying to build a relationship while traveling. He asks me if I imagine that is the only strain our relationship will have to deal with. I realize he's right, whether it's this, or Brad's memory, or a crisis with Liam, there will always be something testing us. I don't know why it is so easy to lose sight of such a simple fact but it is. If we can't deal with being apart for a week or so at a time, the relationship is doomed anyway.

I consider telling him about my experience on top of the rock but don't. This cosmic mumbo-jumbo bullshit is wearing thin. I can't explain it. Maybe I fell asleep. Maybe I never climbed the rock slide and took a running leap only to find myself back on my blanket. The only problem being that the corner of the toenail on my right big toe is peeled back and hurts like a motherfucker. Whatever. I don't care. What I do care about is lying here, entangled with my lover.

Kent makes love to me, slowly, gently. When he cums inside me and buries his face against the side of my neck, breathing hard, I hold him close. For all I know, I could die in my sleep, get hit by an asteroid, or mugged by an old lady. It doesn't fucking matter. I have this moment. I hope and pray there'll be many more but for now I'll focus on this one.