Way Down on the High Lonely (14 page)

“Shaving,” Peggy Mills had warned him, “is what separates you from the goofball survivalists. As long as you shave, you’re a guy who just wants his privacy. When you stop shaving, you’ve gone a little too mountain man. So shave, Neal, and I won’t nag you or worry about you as much.”

It was a good bargain, so Neal dutifully scraped his face every day and felt better for it. One of the challenges of living a primitive life was keeping clean, and a beard would make it more difficult, a repository of sweat, dirt, and dead little bugs. Besides, this was his big day of the week, the day he went to town, and he always liked to show the locals that he had it together. It was a point of pride. He put on a reasonably clean denim shirt, jeans, and jacket, and then his brand-new black Stetson. It was Saturday, his big day in town.

He started his hike to the Mills’ house. He didn’t have to look back over his shoulder to know that the coyote was trotting a good distance behind him.

Far back in the mountains an old man lay in the brush watching a rabbit in the clearing a few feet in front of him. The old man was naked except for a breechcloth made of pounded sagebrush. His long hair was white, as were the few scraggly whiskers that hung from his chin. He was a small man, well under five feet, and his copper skin was stretched tautly over muscles that were still lean and tight. The old man lay perfectly still as the rabbit lifted its head, twitched its nose, and sniffed the air.

The old man was not concerned. He had taken great care to stay downwind of his prey and he had watched the rabbit for many days, learning its habits. Meat was hard to come by, the rabbit was a wary prey, and his own reflexes were not as fast as they had been in his younger years. The old man recognized that the days when he could survive on speed and strength were long gone; now he must make do with experience and craft.

The rabbit put its nose to the ground and hopped slowly toward the bush. The old man released the string of his bow and the tiny arrow went through the rabbit’s neck. The rabbit twitched and kicked in its death spasms and then lay still. The old man got up, took the rabbit by its feet, and headed back to the cave to begin the long process of skinning it with a sharpened piece of flint.

Getting food was a full-time effort and would only get harder. The old man was sorry that summer—that time when the Creator stayed close to the earth and warmed an old man’s bones—was coming to an end. It was so much easier getting food in summer, when it was easy to dig roots, gather pine nuts, and pull up big clumps of desert grass. Then there were mesquite beans and the reeds that grew along the creek banks, and it was good for an old man to sit on a rock in the sun and grind the beans and nuts into a paste, or sit by the creek and make soup from the reeds and grass.

And there were lizards and rats and birds to catch. And rabbits.

But his favorites were the grasshoppers. The old man remembered the time before he was the last of his people, when he and his brothers and sisters would take their sharpened sticks and dig deep pits in the earth. Then they would form a big circle and pound on the earth with their sticks, driving the grasshoppers into the pit, where they could be easily caught. There were many ways to eat grasshoppers: crush them into a paste, boil them in a soup with sweet grass, roast them on a rock in the fire, or set them out to dry in the sun. Or if they were very hungry and their father was not looking, they would simply pop a live one into their mouths and chew.

But those were memories, and now there were no brothers or sisters to help and it was harder to catch the grasshoppers. And soon the snows would come and he would have to stay in the mountains away from the white men and it would be very cold. He had to kill many rabbits for their warm fur as well as their meat. And perhaps soon he would take his bow and his sharpened stick and try to kill a mountain sheep, because he no longer dared to sneak down into the valley and take one of the white man’s calves. Not when he could be easily tracked in the snow.

Shoshoko, “Digger”—that was his name, although he had not heard it spoken in many years—picked up his sharpened stick and headed back toward the cave.

Neal thought that shopping was a wonderful thing. He hadn’t thought this when he lived in New York City, three blocks from a grocery store, or even in Yorkshire, where the grocer and butcher were a pleasant twenty-minute stroll away, but he sure as hell thought it now, after two months of having to procure, preserve, and store food. Now he thought the cans of Dinty Moore beef stew stood among humankind’s highest achievements, right up there beside the pyramids, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and Hormel chili. He had also developed a high opinion of the Jolly Green Giant’s cans of green beans, peas, and those peach slices floating in the sweet, sticky juice—especially the peaches, after a day or so in a canvas bag in cold, rushing water.

And what genius, Neal wondered, had come up with peanut butter? Could it really have been some dork named Skippy? Never mind, it was a major cultural advance. Let the food critics, the health food nuts, and the yuppies whine and scoff at canned food. To Neal canned food meant freedom, the ability to live at arm’s reach from civilization and still survive. Canned food let him live in his cabin and have plenty of time to read great books, fish, and take naps instead of spending all his time scratching in the dirt, or hunting, or guarding his crops from vermin.

Steve Mills thought so too.

“I’m happy to see,” Steve had said when he saw how Neal had stocked his larder, “that you’re not one of these purists we get up here who arrive with their Whole Earth catalogues and plans for a geodesic dome. They figure they’re going to grow their bean sprouts and their organic vegetables and live in harmony with nature. Only thing is, nature never read
Diet for a Small Planet,
so the deer and the rabbits and the bugs eat the whole crop instead of restricting themselves to their socially responsible share. Then one of these ‘alternative life-stylers’ kids named Sunshine or Raven gets an ear infection that herbal tea can’t cure, and so I find myself hauling them to the doctor in my air-polluting, gas-guzzling truck so he can write them a prescription for some nonorganic chemicals they can’t pay for anyway, so half the time I end up writing a check from the capitalist profits I make from selling my murderous, unhealthy red meat. And about the only thing that grows naturally up here that the animals don’t like is dope, so these purists are stoned half the time anyway, unless they have the sense to sell it instead of smoking it. So they end up either starving, dirty, malnourished drug casualties or wealthy capitalists running bales of marijuana into Reno in custom vans that cost more than my whole house. So I’m glad to see that you like Dirity Moore stew.”

Joe Graham had a different take on the purity issue. “You heard that saying about not taking the easy way out?” he’d asked Neal. “Sometimes the easy way is the best way. A lot of smart people have put in a lot of time making things easier. People who tell you not to take the easy way out are the same people who’ll then get on a plane to the West Coast instead of taking a covered wagon, which would be a lot harder.”

Neal didn’t care much about the philosophy of the whole thing. He just wanted to live in the cabin, not see people unless he wanted to, and read books. So he stocked up on his favorite canned food, bought a six-pack of bottled beer, and picked up his week’s supply of newspapers.

Steve Mills pulled his truck up alongside the sidewalk. He’d been down at the gas station, stocking up on surreptitious cigs.

“You ready to head back?”

“Why not?”

Neal slung his pack into the bed of the pickup and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Thought I’d work on my fluid intake at Brogan’s for a minute,” Steve said.

“Sounds good to me.”

Brogan was asleep in his chair. Brezhnev was asleep at his feet. The flies on the window screen were awake, though.

Brogan cracked an eye open as the door shut. “Help yourselves, leave the money on the bar, and remember that Brezhnev can count,” he said, then shut his eyes again.

Brezhnev raised his heavy head at least a centimeter and looked at Steve and Neal with a proprietary interest. Neal hopped over the bar, poured two bourbons into greasy glasses, and left a five-dollar bill on the bar.

Steve tasted his drink, decided he liked it, and tossed it down. “There goes another year of my life. I think I’ll give ‘em my ninety-ninth, what do you think? So what are you planning on doing up there in January when the pump freezes and there’s two feet of snow on the ground?”

Neal sipped at his drink, savoring it. He’d decided against buying any hard booze for the cabin precisely because he thought he’d use it. Like every hight. But the one or two he had at Brogan’s, or the odd drink at the Mills’ house sure went down well.

“I’ll let January worry about January,” he said. It sounded just as stupid out loud as it had in his head.

“Well, you know I ain’t much for worrying, but now is the time to start getting your firewood together and figuring out a dry place to store it. You’re going to need a hell of a lot of it. And then there’s cabin fever.”

“I won’t get cabin fever.”

“Tell me after you’ve spent a winter by yourself out there. That is, if you’re not still talking to little men who live in the walls.”

“Oh.”

“Everybody around here gets it to one extent or another. It’s the cold, the wind, the darkness, the monotony of snow, snow, and snow. Hell, I get it, Peggy gets it, Shelly would get it if she wasn’t teenage crazy already. But I’ve seen some of these survivalists and Vietnam vets and hippies who’ve tried to winter it alone around here. By the time spring springs, they’re already sprung, you know what I mean? Do you suppose Brogan has any more bourbon, or did we drink it up already?”

Steve took Neal’s glass with him and came back with two more drinks. He sat down, lit up a cigarette, and tilted his chair back against the wall.

“Why don’t you come down and stay with us for the winter? I could use the help, Peggy would like to hear a new set of lies for a change, and Shelly thinks you hung the moon anyway.”

“What help do you need in the winter?” Neal asked doubtfully.

“Well, I can’t drink
all
the bourbon myself.”

“I’ll be okay, Steve. I’m used to being alone. I like it.” Besides, he thought, I need my privacy.

“Suit yourself. But I can tell you right now, Peggy’s not going to let you sit up there during the holidays. She’ll come after you with a gun, tie you on the back of a horse.”

They finished their drinks and got back in the truck. Thirteen bumpy, dusty miles later they pulled into the Mills’ driveway. Shelly and Jory were in the front corral. Shelly was throwing a saddle on Dash. The horse was doing his distinctive little shuffle dance like a prize fighter in his corner before the first-round bell. Jory was cinching up the docile mare with the appropriately soothing name of Cocoa.

“Hey, Neal!” Shelly hollered. “Want to ride?”

It was a joke between them. Shelly had been trying to get Neal on a horse since his first morning in Nevada. Sometimes she would ride Dash up to his cabin, trailing Cocoa or the equally tame Dolly, and try to get him to go for a trail ride. Neal thought that riding on the spine of a horse along the spine of a ridge was a double jeopardy he wasn’t eager to pursue in the name of recreation.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” Neal answered.

Shelly laughed and flashed him a brilliant smile. Then she stuck her foot into the stirrup and swung up onto the horse.

“What’s the matter? Afraid to ride?”

Neal was tempted to tell her that he had ridden the IRT number two train, otherwise known as the Beast, thank you very much. He was also tempted to make some smart crack about teenage girls and horses. But he thought better of both remarks. Shelly was a great kid who just wanted to share the fun.

Yeah, right.

“Hi, Neal,” said Jory.

That was a long-winded anecdote for Jory.

“How’s it going?” Neal asked.

“just going riding,” Jory answered as he got into the saddle.

Shelly gave Dash a sharp kick in the flanks and the horse tore out of the corral like it was a dog food factory. Jory snapped his reins and Cocoa trotted after them.

Steve watched them ride off. “Now at Berkeley that’s what we’d have called life imitating art. I’m afraid that boy’s going to be eating her dust for as long as he stays on her trail.”

“Is she leaving him behind?”

“Oh, I think so. I think they might make it through their senior year, but when she gets to college and sees what all is out there … and lately Jory doesn’t see much beyond his dad’s ranch. I tell you, I hope Shelly calls us from college one summer to try to convince us we should let her spend the summer riding a bike around Europe, or looking at naked statues in Italy or something. We’ll put up a little struggle just to make it more fun for her, but I do hope that’s what happens.”

“She loves it here, Steve,” Neal said.

“She can always come back. You want to stay to dinner? I’m just going to throw some steaks on the grill.”

“I better not. I have stuff to get done.”

“Lot of work, being a mountain man. Well, come in and have a cup of coffee with Peggy, or you’ll get me in trouble.”

Peggy didn’t have any coffee on. She had a pitcher of sun tea, a bottle of vodka, a stack of magazines, and a firm intent to sit out on the porch with her feet on the railing while reading nothing more complicated than a photo caption.

“I figure it might be the last afternoon warm enough to do this. You can join me,” she said to Neal, “if you promise to speak in short sentences.”

“Thanks.”

“Good start,” Peggy said. She poured three glasses of tea over ice, topped two of them off with a shot of Smirnoff, and handed her husband the unloaded one.

“You’re a terrible woman,” he said.

“Hmm. Is our one and only off leading Jory Hansen on a merry chase?”

“Merry for her, anyway. Why, did you have something for her to do?”

“Well, she could toss a hand grenade into her room by way of cleaning it … but no, not really. Come on, boys, the porch awaits.”