Текст книги "The Call of the Mountain"

Автор книги: Sam Neumann

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

13

It was time to look for a job. I wasn’t running low on money—was hardly spending any—but I was lacking purpose. I browsed the Boulder job boards. There’s wasn’t much with dignity—mostly student employment and entry-level kitchen work—though there were a few openings for servers. I waited tables at a restaurant for two years in college and didn’t hate it. I could do that for a little while as I got things figured out. It didn’t sound terrible.

Back in town after my night in the mountains, Anthony and Julia took me to dinner. I protested; it was ridiculous for them to buy me dinner, considering the free lodging and refuge they’d already provided. But they insisted. We went to a classy French place one block off Pearl Street, with dim lighting and fancy décor. I felt underdressed.

Anthony and I ordered steaks, Julia the duck, and they asked me about my evening.

“It was nothing special. A good time,” I said. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” she asked.

“Just the people. They’re interesting people. Free-thinkers, I guess. Some sort of neo-hippies.”

“Remind you of Brooklyn?”

I laughed. “It’s different though. Brooklyn’s all tight jeans and mom-and-dad money. This is…different. These mountain people…”

“Mountain people?” Anthony asked.

“Yeah. It’s like they have their own culture up there. That’s how it felt. Like a real, legit, live-in-the-woods-and-make-our-own-clothes thing.”

“They make their own clothes?” Julia asked.

“No. Not that I know of. It’s just the vibe I got. Like, salt of the earth people, I guess. All just kind of doing their thing in the mountains.”

“Do they work?” Anthony asked.

I shrugged. “I assume. It was a big ass house.”

They both wanted to ask more, but the food came, and we moved on.

“I’m looking for jobs,” I said between bites. The steak was a perfect, buttery medium-rare.

“Good,” Anthony said, and Julia agreed. “How’s the job market for stockbrokers in Boulder?”

Stockbroker. Just about everyone since I had started at Wilson Keen, almost all my friends and family insisted on putting what I did under the overarching umbrella of “stockbroker.” My job as a financial analyst had as much in common with a stockbroker as a supermarket checkout clerk, but when explaining this I was usually met with blank stares and empty eyes. I stopped correcting them a long time ago.

I shook my head. “Wouldn’t go back if they wanted me. Time to try something else.”

Julia raised an eyebrow. “Clothes-maker?” We laughed.

I told them I might start looking for server jobs, just to stay busy for a while, and I mentioned moving out soon, even though I hadn’t begun to figure out where or how. Neither of them seemed concerned. I finished my steak, we drove home, and we all turned in for the night. The couch was becoming familiar.

In the morning, my father called. I’d lost track, but I pegged it around six months since we’d spoken.

“Colorado?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“So they weren’t lying.”

“Guess not.”

He paused.

“Julian, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?” There was a sober irritation in his voice, which was nothing new.

I told him. Most of it, anyway. I glossed over some parts, and embellished some others, if slightly. I told him enough to get the point across, enough to explain myself. And not much more.

“You really aren’t coming back?” he asked when I was done. He had less bite now. We were past scolding.

“Probably not.”

“What about your job?”

“Oh, they fired me. I called the Monday after I left to give my resignation, but they told me they were already actively filling my job. Mitch talked to me like I was a stranger. You’re just an asset to them, dad. Nothing more.”

He sighed, long and loud. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Still figuring that out. I will, though.”

“Okay,” he said, pausing to think. He wasn’t used to losing. “Okay. Just keep in touch, okay? And let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, dad. Will do.”

“And if you decide to come back…if you come back, let me know. We’d like to see you.”

“Of course,” I said, and we hung up the phone. He was getting old—they both were—and the guilt of a being a shitty son hit me. Even when I’d lived close by, just a three-hour drive away, I hardly saw my parents more than on select holidays. Too busy.

They’d always liked Megan. My mother was crushed, probably, by what I had done. She would have gotten on the phone normally. I could picture them standing in the kitchen, trying in vain to sort it out. What is happening to our son?

Their only kid, bailing on his wife and family to run off across the country on some damn mental breakdown. Shameful. They were getting older and Megan was alone, and I was at fault for all of it. The shame came over me now. Covered me up like a wool blanket, and for the first time in Colorado, I fought back tears.

14

I’m singing tonight. Come up.

Suzanne sent me this text on Tuesday. We hadn’t spoken since Friday.

I was driving around Boulder and dropping off resumes at any restaurants advertising help wanted. I didn’t know how far senior-level experience in the financial sector would get me in the service industry, but I had nothing else to give, other than anecdotes about my time as a server in college. I gave both, and they said they’d call me.

Where? I responded, sitting in my car.

McNeil’s, in Otter Ridge. Meet us there.

She was singing. In some public forum, I assumed, with musical accompaniment. This didn’t surprise me; after hearing her sing just a little, I knew she was good enough. She had the voice of a woman who loved to use it. Of course I went.

The drive was shorter this time. Once again I rode through the hills during sunset, and cruised past Georgetown as night fell. Then, through the tunnel and down the steep hill into Silverthorne. The moon cast a sharp glow down into the valley. It was nearly ten when I turned off the highway.

I told myself it was nothing more than looking for a good time. Exposing myself to new experiences, in a new place, with new people—strange, yes, but interesting people—was exhilarating. It was exciting. The mountains were exciting. Suzanne was exciting. I’d missed excitement. But it was something else, too. Companionship, maybe. The feeling of being desired. I knew there was no future with her, or with any of them, probably. It was a temporary fix. But she wanted me around, and for now, that was good enough.

I followed my GPS to McNeil’s. It took me through downtown Otter Ridge, the quaint little area I’d pondered on my last trip, away from the high-dollar resort lodging of some other mountain towns. There was a turn down a side street, and another five-minute drive and I was there. It was a large building, bigger than expected, tucked into the side of a hill. There were a few houses around, but nothing commercial. I parked on the street and entered.

My walk to the front door was lit dimly by the moon, and I entered into a golden glow of warmth and movement. McNeil’s was one large room—high, vaulted ceilings, large panel windows on the far side. An open seating area with tables covering the floor and a long bar on the edge. The place was packed. Across the room sat an old grand piano, and a middle-aged man behind it. And next to them stood Suzanne, adorned in a long red dress, in front of a microphone.

She sang, he played, and the people of the bar listened. Some carried on conversations, but most listened and watched. I walked to the bar and ordered a drink.

“Hello, fella,” came a voice beside me. I turned and saw it was Vince, leaning against the bar just as I was.

I was happy to see a familiar face, and greeted him in kind.

He motioned to the bartender to put my drink on his tab.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said.

“Come join us. We’re over in the corner booth there.” He motioned with his hand and started walking.

I grabbed my drink and followed him. Suzanne’s voice filled the large room, reverberating off the floor and bouncing off wood columns. They played and sang through a cheap house PA system, but she was clear over the muddy piano. She sang a jazzy song, crooning every word.

I slid into the booth after Vince, where a handful of his people sat. I recognized most of them this time; Damon was on the end, his heavy dreadlocks giving him away. Then there were Ryan and Danielle, with whom I’d discussed New York, and others I couldn’t place.

We sat and drank and listened mostly. They wandered through a few old-fashioned tunes, the piano slow and her voice low, then switched to up-tempo. Once I caught her eye and she winked. Her voice was beautiful.

“Julian,” Vince said, leaning my direction, “are you still in Boulder?”

“Right now, yeah,” I said over the piano. “Trying to find a job right now. Just bartending or something. Part time, maybe. Just a way to fill the time.”

“Having any luck?”

“I just started, so no. Not yet.”

“Well, fella, maybe you should think of browsing the job market here in the mountains.”

I paused. “Hadn’t really thought about that. Can’t imagine there are many jobs in these little mountain towns.”

“Not a lot, but enough. You could find a bartending gig if you tried. It’s practically all service industry up here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I know a lot of the bar owners here anyway. You’d have a pretty easy in.”

I thought about it. Bartend in the mountains. Find a little apartment in Otter Ridge, or Frisco or Dillon. Watch the leaves change in the fall, work nights. Stick around for ski season, drink coffee and watch tourists. Ski during the day, party at night. It wasn’t the worst idea.

“Of course,” he said, “if you’re looking for something more lucrative, I could probably help you out with that, too.”

More lucrative.

“Like what?” I asked.

He shrugged, and the band took a break.

Suzanne came directly to our table and slid onto my lap.

“You came,” she said, staring me down.

“I did.” We faced one another; our eyes and lips close, almost touching but not. She smelled sweet, like flowers.

“Jeez Suzy,” Vince said, “take it easy till you get a room at least.” The rest of the table laughed. They were paying attention.

“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply, and slid off my lap on to the bench beside me. “I told you not to call me that.” She fixed her gold necklace. “I’m Miss Suzanne.”

“Well I’m sorry, Miss Suzanne,” he said. “Music sounds great tonight.”

I agreed.

“Thank you,” she said, producing a wide smile. “I’m glad you’re all here.” She was bashful now, almost sheepish.

“Our pleasure,” Vince said, and the others agreed before going back to their own conversations.

“Julian,” she said, turning back to me, “how ever was the trek?”

“Not bad,” I said. “It gets easier.”

“Well, I don’t know when you’ll quit this ruse and just move to the mountains.”

This was the third time I’d interacted with these people, and they were asking me to move to their town. The line between flattering and creepy was hard to place.

I motioned to Vince. “We were discussing that, actually.”

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” she said. “Skip the drive, be with friends. You have no ties to Boulder.”

I nodded and said I’d think it over. Then the piano started again, and she was back to the stage.

15

The next day, I packed my things. It was easy, being they all fit in a single duffel bag, but it felt symbolic. In the late afternoon, I said goodbye to Anthony and Julia, thanked them profusely for their hospitality, and told them they must come visit once I got settled. They said it was their pleasure, come back anytime, and of course they’d come visit. They stood on their front porch and waved as I drove away.

Vince was right. Suzanne was right. There was no reason to waste my time in Boulder anymore. I was a burden on my cousin and his wife, and I had no job, nothing to occupy my time, and no prospects. There was nothing for me there. I could be unemployed anywhere, and I had no problem paying for a place to stay, at least not yet.

They were not creepy. They were good, salt-of-the-earth people who wanted what was best for me, no matter how fresh our relationship was. I needed to start accepting people’s goodwill rather than shunning it.

There was something about the mountains. Something about that little town nestled in a valley, and the little towns around it, and all the roads leading into the thicket. Something about Vince’s hilltop chateau dropped in the middle of nowhere. There was a spirit to the mountains, and like a whisper from a friend, quiet yet powerful. That spirit—that whisper—is why I came to Colorado. To deny it would be wrong.

After she sang that night, I stayed at Suzanne’s place. A little apartment between Frisco and Otter Ridge she shared with another woman who wasn’t home. Everyone hung around the bar for an hour after she finished then disbanded. When we got to her apartment, we split a bottle of wine, listened to Patsy Cline on vinyl, and went to bed.

I was invited to a party later that week, again at Vince’s. I realized then there was no weekdays or weekend with these people. None of them seemed to have to wake up early for anything, be it a Tuesday or a Saturday. Work was a necessary part of adult life, no matter how freethinking you fancied yourself, but I hadn’t yet heard anyone mention a job. There was no week or weekend, just one constant stream of life, socialization, and partying.

I drove up to Frisco and checked into a motel. Suzanne pushed me to stay with her while I looked for apartments, but it was best to decline. I enjoyed her company, but it seemed presumptive. I thought about Megan, and what she might be doing right then. I thought about Brent. If I stopped moving for long enough, I’d feel the pull of loss. I’d start to miss her. So I kept moving.

My first morning in the hotel, I awoke without an alarm just after dawn and stepped outside for a walk. The air was cool, almost cold, which I was not used to in the summer. At over nine thousand feet of elevation, I was beginning to learn the temperature could swing wildly from day to night. The sun was shining over the tops of the pines, and the weather forecast called for a high of seventy-eight degrees.

I strolled down to Lake Dillon, a conspicuously large body of water that the highway wrapped around. It was early, but there were already boats hoisting up sails and navigating slowly through what little wind there was. The sun reflected off their white canvas, and again off the tiny ripples in the water. I made a mental note to get myself on a sailboat.

I stopped into a bagel shop and got a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I ate and drank and read the local newspaper, scanning the real estate listings for rentals. The pickings were slim and the prices were steep. After breakfast I called the phone numbers of three apartments in my price range. There was one answer, so I got my car and met the agent at the property.

It was a small walk-up studio, in a natural wood building with a shared porch. The complex was near downtown Otter Ridge, but a mile off the main road. It felt secluded. The agent was tired-eyed but helpful, no doubt just starting her day. She held a large coffee and wore a flannel button-down. In my wrinkle-free dress shirt and designer jeans, I was dressed nicer than she was, and again I was the one who felt out of place. The apartment, she said, was just under seven hundred square feet, but it felt even smaller. The amenities were nice, if a touch rustic; clean and working appliances that were only a decade out of date, natural finished walls, and dusty hardwood floors. It was partially furnished—a bed, small couch, and one dresser—which suited me perfectly. I loved it, put a deposit down on the spot, and agreed to move in the next day.

16

Vince put me in touch with a man named Wes, who managed the Lounge, another bar in town. I went to see him one afternoon about a job.

“You know Vince?” he asked from behind the bar. He was a handsome man. Strong. Brown hair slicked back, sleeves rolled up, tattoos down his forearms. Short stubble on his face.

I nodded.

He looked satisfied. “Friend ‘a his is a friend ‘a mine. You got any experience?”

I nodded again. “A little. Back in college, in New Hampshire.”

“You from out east?” He loaded glasses into a washing machine.

“Yeah. New York most recently.”

His eyes brightened. “You bartend in New York?”

“No. I was…something else. A financial analyst.”

He looked puzzled.

I paused. “It’s like…a stockbroker.”

“Hot damn,” he said. “The hell are ya doing here?”

He gave me a job. The pay was low, but there would be tips. I would start Friday.

For two weeks I worked nights and explored during daytime. I hiked around the area, kicking around trails, gaining elevation, and stopping frequently to breathe. The views were gorgeous, and the trails uncrowded. I liked the feeling it gave me, to go up and gasp for air and sweat. I didn’t scale any mountain peaks, but there was always a reward—a lower summit or a big rock to sit on. One morning I saw a herd of elk, and fumbled with my camera until they moved on.

The job was fine. At first it was exciting, almost adrenaline inducing; it had been so long since I’d been behind a bar, slinging drinks to thirsty customers, sweating as I paced from one end to the other. I had to relearn certain drinks, get familiar with the computer system, and be on my feet for six or seven hours at a time, while trying to keep a bar full of patrons happy and drunk. The wall of people waiting for drinks was often two bodies deep. It was the opposite of staring at numbers and sitting at meetings, and in that way, it was excellent. But as the days went on, the work got monotonous, and I mostly opened bottles of light beer and mixed vodka with sweet liquids. I calculated the money I was making, and it would be enough to cover my rent and necessities, but not much extra. I remembered why I took the Wall Street job in the first place.

And then there were more parties, or gatherings, or soirees, or whatever, always at McNeil’s or Vince’s place in the hills. To each I was invited. Sometimes I didn’t go, but sometimes I did. With Suzanne, always, entering together and leaving together, a regular couple. Except we weren’t.

I didn’t plan on taking a girlfriend while I was still legally married, for whatever sort of salvaged decency that was worth. My justification about seeing Suzanne was that while my legal marriage remained, my actual marriage was gone. I knew it and Megan knew it. It still existed on a piece of paper, but that was all; it was over in reality. I’d run off to the mountains, and she was banging Brent or somebody else. The reasons for these things mattered less than they once had. Now, it just mattered that they were.

Suzanne now filled whatever vacuum was created, albeit differently. She was exciting, entertaining; something completely different from what I’d ever been around in my lifetime. She was odd, bordering on eccentric but never quite crossing the line. It was a balance, and it worked for her. Being around her made my heart beat faster. But Suzanne was not a partner. It was never to be a relationship. I could never introduce her to my friends or family, or make a life with her. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had the same thoughts about me, even though she showed an outward desire to get closer. In the end, she was fun, but she was a gimmick, and so were we.

Still, we spent time together, and attended the parties together. And it was at one of these parties when Vince approached me about making runs.

It was supposed to seem as if I was approaching him, and at the time that’s exactly how it felt. But looking back, I know it was his plan, regardless of who initiated that very conversation. He’d planted the seed that night at McNeil’s, and he knew what would happen. He was very good.

We were in his mountain chateau, surrounded by dozens of people this time, most of whom I didn’t recognize. Secluded in the hills, through cigarette smoke and the haze of four beers, I told him about my bartending job, because he asked.

“It’s work,” I said. “I appreciate you making the connection.”

He waved his hand. “Don’t mention it. Wes is a friend. They paying you alright?”

I shrugged. “Not terrible. I’m coming from Wall Street, though. Nothing seems like enough.”

“Ah,” he said, “the curse of the big city.”

“Exactly. That’s why I left; it was all about money. It controlled my life. Need to remember it’s not important.”

“That’s the right attitude,” he said.

“I realize I never asked,” I said, “what is it you do?”

He took a drink. “Freight. I have a little freight business. We move material locally, from town to town. Small loads mostly. Boring stuff. Pays the bills.”

“It must,” I said, and motioned around the house.

He smiled. “Business has been good. I’m able to live comfortably and pay my drivers well.”

My mind then made the connection. I mentally flashed back to McNeil’s, our conversation about jobs, and Vince mentioning something “more lucrative.”

“What qualifications do your drivers need?”

“Two working hands and a steady right foot. A brain in their heads. And a drivers license, I suppose.” He laughed.

“Class A license?”

“No. Just a normal license will do. Like I said, small loads.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“You aren’t looking for new employment already, are you?”

“No. Of course not. I just…it’s an interesting thought. I’m not a professional driver, though.”

“Neither were most of the guys I hired. Listen, if you ever wanted in to the business, we could probably make that work. It’s a good gig, and I like you. Suzanne sure is happy since you showed up.”

I laughed. “We’re just having fun.”

He laughed, too. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Anyway, we pay five hundred a load.”

With that, he walked away and left me standing there alone. Five hundred, dollars I assumed, per load. Currently, it was taking me almost a week to bring in that much in tips. The thought of earning it in one shift seemed ludicrous, especially for something as simple as driving. I did quick math in my head. Say it was a normal five-day workweek (which was a massive assumption, but no matter); that was twenty-five hundred per week. Ten thousand a month. Well over a hundred thousand per year. Suddenly, I was back in the neighborhood of Wall Street earnings, simply by driving a vehicle from one place to another.

I was massively simplifying things, and I knew this. But the pull of the money, no matter the variables, outweighed most else. This was how the thing started.