When Marty got back to the little cabin in the redwoods, he couldn’t wait to tell someone all that he had seen. To his delight, Jimbo was back, sitting at the kitchen table and having a cup of coffee with another long-haired man. His mom was fixing supper, and it smelled good. “This is Bob,” Jimbo said by way of introduction, and watched sidelong as Marty shook his hand. Bob had a tragically lopsided face, with one eye protruding at an odd angle. Scars covered his forehead, and there was a large dent at his hairline. His skin was yellow, and his hair, beard, and mustache were patchy and scraggly, and the same color as the black coffee in his mug. He looked like a Muppet that had been stored in the trunk of a car for too long.
He saw Marty staring at his features, and tensed a little. “I was in car wreck a while back,” he slurred, “I can’t talk good, neither.”
“Oh!” Marty started, “I’m sorry to hear that!” Bob rolled his good eye ever so slightly, in the manner of one who has heard people say the same thing to him for a very long time.
“It’s okay,” he shrugged, “It’s just me, Bug-Eye Bob. I live in the shack up the road.” This was said as a matter of fact, without sadness or apology, but it struck Marty very deeply. “It’s just me.” He vowed to always try and see the soul in a person before judging their appearance.
To change the subject, Marty told them about his adventures, and the Old Grandfather Fir. Jimbo was the only one who looked genuinely interested in the tale, as he had been up near Yosemite for a while, helping his brother Jack fix up an old cabin. He told Marty of all that he had seen in the Sierras, and the two of them got carried away by their reverie. “Bug-Eye Bob” looked uncomfortable, and then Marge interrupted them to come and get some food. Julie and Susie appeared from their rooms, where they had apparently been hiding after meeting poor Bob.
Jimbo and Marty continued to talk about the wide open places, without regard for the delicious meal. It was lasagna, something his mom didn’t make very often, and he suspected there was some patching up going on between her and Jimbo. They were both very respectful of each other’s space. The ladies were strangely silent while Marty and Jimbo planned all the places they would hike, and the trips they would take. When the dishes were all cleared it was getting dark, so poor Bob thanked everyone and scuttled quickly out the door, obviously discomfited by being in the presence of so many people who were trying not to look at his disfigured face.
The women immediately started in with twittering, “Oh my god, did you see that dent on his head?” and “I couldn’t look at his eye,” and “He was creepy.” Jimbo shushed everyone dramatically, and peered out the kitchen window into the darkness. The room fell silent.
“I think he’s out there – listening.” He made a move to duck and hide, and the girls screamed and ran to their rooms. Then they screamed and ran back, not wanting to be alone in their rooms. They made Jimbo watch TV with them in the main room, and for the rest of the night they peered fitfully over their shoulders at the black, solemn eyes of the uncovered windows. Marty felt sorry for Bob, but he could understand the reactions of his sisters. He was creepy looking, and sadly had little choice in the matter. Marty thought of Quasimodo, remembering that if one is not strong of character, one easily becomes what others see.
The next day, Julie’s new boyfriend Ron came over early, and the two of them disappeared into her room for a while. Marty was trying to read a book, and while he appreciated that they were getting a head start on next year’s homework, or studying the Bible, they didn’t have to make so much noise! The family was slowly growing accustomed to the small living space that they shared. Jimbo and Marge were ensconced in her room, and Susie wasn’t up yet, so Marty went outside – which would become a regular habit. He packed a quick lunch, left a note, and slipped out quietly so Susie wouldn’t follow him. He wanted to ride his bike around and see where all the roads led to. His first foray took him down past the China House to the Inkwells. The debauchery of the previous day had abated somewhat, and there were just a couple of skinny nudists tending the garden (don’t they ever get sunburn?). Farther on, a disrobed man sat cross-legged at the swimming hole in a meditation pose. He continued past the gate into Samuel P. Taylor state park, to explore the old railroad bed that stretched for miles (or so Ent had told him).
Ent also informed him of the history of the railroad, which in its early days had been the sole means of connecting West Marin and Sonoma counties with the rest of the world. It was called the North Pacific Coast Railroad briefly, at about the time the McAuliffe homesteaders built their summer homes in the narrow spaces between the tracks and the creek. By 1907, it was all part of the Pacific Northwest Railroad. The tracks located “over the hill” in southern Marin became one of the first electric commuter lines in the country, but when a road was built over White’s Hill in the early part of the century, the railroads declined rapidly. By the late 30’s the western sections were all torn up, leaving the graded bed upon which Marty pedaled his bike. He wanted to see how far the old road would go, and get away from all the nakedness and fornication around his house.
The flat dirt road followed Papermill Creek, which was the only available traverse through the narrow canyon. Across its bed he could hear cars thumping along on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, going west to the beaches. He saw nobody else riding or hiking on the trail, which was a bit surprising because it was so easy and beautiful. As he rode along he passed glade after glade of gorgeous redwoods on his left, illuminated in the slanting morning sun and carpeted with a lush undergrowth of ferns and flowering bushes. To his right the hillside rose very steeply, and was sometimes carved into a cliff like the one next to their driveway; garnished with sprays of ferns in the shady spots. The numerous ravines were choked with poison oak and bay laurel, and Marty saw a few small waterfalls. He pumped his way past a fire road leading up the hill, and marked it for exploration at a later time. On and on his knees went up and down, up and down, until he came to an actual picnic ground, with tables and brick barbecues. He deduced that he was already in the State park, and there was a bridge crossing the highway, so he rode over to the west side of the canyon and everything reversed. Now the steep hillside was on his left, and the creek on his right. Ever onward he pedaled, wondering just how far he had traveled, and how far the old railroad bed would go. The redwoods got bigger as he passed a campground in the center of the park, where more people were walking along the trail. Soon he was all alone again, and the road stretched on and on, continuously flanked by postcard redwood vistas.
Eventually Marty came to the end of the old railroad bed, where the bike path went under a modern bridge, and the highway headed up the Olema grade and over the Bolinas Ridge to Bear Valley. There was a dilapidated platform bridge that was no longer in use, and a sign that said he was in Tocaloma. It didn’t appear to be much of a town – there was just a large barn and a couple of houses. Ent said there had been a huge hotel here in the old days, but it burned down. He guessed that the old railroad route followed the creek towards Pt. Reyes Station, but it had become a paved road. That was farther than he wanted to go, so he turned and rode back the way he’d come. Along the way, he explored the winding campground roads, riding around and watching all the tourists, many of whom were thrilled to be camping in the redwoods. Heck, he thought to himself, we’re camping out here every day!
Marty pedaled back across the bridge and past the picnic ground, which was now chock-full o’ tourists, barbecuing tons of food and playing in the creek. He stopped at a deserted spot to eat his meager lunch: a bologna sandwich and an apple. The setting was gorgeous, as if he was merely a visitor in the home of the elves and gnomes, but the noise of the highway was too constant. On the way back home he tried riding up that steep fire road, but his little Schwinn had no gears, and there simply wasn’t enough strength in his tired legs to leverage him and the bike up the very steep switchbacks. He climbed about a hundred yards, then turned around and braked all the way back down to keep from hurtling into the creek at the bottom. It was well past noon by now, so he headed home. The hippies were still working their garden, au natural, and he saw Camille and Frederick wave and smile brightly as he rode past. It was easier to keep going than to stop and endure the tension of talking to naked people, so he waved hastily, as if he had other things to do.
Back at the cabin, an early 4th of July party had broken out while Marty was away. Otter and Rabbit were there, courtesy of Jack, who had driven down from Yosemite to pick up the rest of his tools. Paula was sitting at the picnic table, chatting with Alex and Little Billy. Bug-Eye Bob was nursing a beer in a chair away from everyone, gloomily self-conscious as always. Julie and Ron were in one of the redwood groves with a measuring tape, and Marty wondered what they were up to. Susie and Tillie perched on the edge of the deck and chattered like over-caffeinated blue jays. Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon was playing really loud on his stereo, as someone had put two big speakers in the open bay window. Jimbo and Jack were grilling a huge pile of meat on a smoky fire, while Rabbit and Marge shelled peas animatedly; lost in the choreography of getting reacquainted.
Otter seemed in excellent spirits (he smelled like them, anyway), and gave Marty a big bear hug. “How the hell ar’ya, kid? You look like you been sleddin’!”
“I’m fine,” Marty replied with his practiced, upper class deference to adults. “I’ve been exploring the roads with my bike. It goes on forever to the west,” he waved down-canyon. “I really like it out here. Do you?” he asked the rugged Eskimo, and realized that he valued his opinion.
Otter looked around approvingly, with the rough candor of experience, and nodded. “Beats gettin’ poked in the eye with a sharp stick!” He was full of many oddly clever sayings that Marty had never heard before, and most of them were rather profound. But the drunker he got, the less he made sense… and the wilder the anecdotes became. “Actually, me and Rabbit are gonna pitch our wigwam here a while – if it’s okay with you, I mean.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it’s okay’ with me?” Marty eyed him suspiciously, thinking this was another one of his mischievous jokes.
Otter got really quiet and looked levelly at Marty, suddenly stone cold serious. His squinty obsidian eyes seemed to look right through the boy; not tearing him down but lifting him up. “Well, yer the chief of this family, ain’tcha? Yer the oldest male!” He poked him in the chest pointedly.
Marty hadn’t thought of it like that, and smiled with uncertain pride. His dad had pretty much disowned them, and Jimbo wasn’t really a father figure, so he guessed Otter was right. He was now the “man” of the family. “But I’m only th-thirteen,” he stuttered with thinly disguised trepidation.
“You got three legs, ain’tcha? Anyways, if ya ain’t the lead dog on the sled, the view’s always the same.” Otter belched and rubbed his belly. “Fuck it, I need another beer.” It appeared to Marty as if he was plenty drunk already. The wise old Inuit took a step and a half sideways, leaned into the wind, and paddled his kayak towards the cooler.
Marty saw Paula smiling at him and blushed, wondering if he (or she?) had overheard what Otter said. She (he?) looked vaguely hopeful, as if the boy’s rosy cheeks showed uncertain promise. Marty studiously inspected the masculine barbecue proceedings, to demonstrate that he took his role as man of the family seriously. There sure was a lot of meat! “This steak’s for you,” Jimbo teased, hoisting a slab of meat the size of a pillow.
“You know what that is?” Jack asked slyly.
“From your question, it’s logical to assume it’s not part of a cow,” Marty replied in his best Spock voice, “Buffalo?”
“It’s venison,” informed Jack, flopping the meat back on the flaming grill, “I kind of, uh, hit a deer with my van near my house.”
“I thought that hunting season was in the fall.” Marty said casually, as if roadkill barbecues were a normal occurrence at his house.
Otter ambled past with a fresh beer and sarcastically growled, “Venison? You been drivin’ through the woods again, Jack?” He teetered over to Rabbit and leaned on her with open adoration. She loved her wild and outdoorsy man, and sat very tall in her chair to support him as if he were resting his arm on a mantel. Marge was struggling with the peas, and between the two of them there were still only a small amount of them shelled, because their hands were busy with beer and cigarettes.
“Susie, why don’t you and Tillie help them with the peas,” Marty directed, glancing out the corner of his eye to see if Otter noticed he was asserting his tribal leadership.
“Why don’t you?” Tillie retorted, in a wickedly sarcastic tone that indicated she was a virtuoso with that instrument. Susie laughed loudly – as she did with nearly everything Tillie said – which was really annoying.
Marty said the only thing that came to mind; a traditional phrase that had been passed down for generations since the dawn of mankind. “That’s women’s work.” The members of the fair sex immediately protested, and Marge and Rabbit seized on the opportunity to score feminist points and rid themselves of the peas at the same time. They got up and shoved the bag in his hand, and ushered him towards a chair with a bowl.
“Ladies first,” his mom said with a bow, and Marty was the laughingstock of the party. He really didn’t mind. It was a good joke! Paula was grinning at him as if he had joined some sort of club, and Marge looked very pleased with herself.
“Ooh, she’s a feisty one!” Otter howled. “I’ll call her Raccoon.”
Rabbit laughed loudly in her deep, hoarse voice, and slapped Marge on the back. “C’mon Raccoon, I’ll buy you a beer.” They went into the house.
“I want to be an animal, too!” whined Susie, “What am I?”
Otter tilted his head at her, because by now that was the only way he could focus. He squinted, and looked her up and down. “Well, yer a little small, but we’ll keep ya. Yer a grunion.”
Tillie guffawed as if she knew what a grunion was. Then she whispered suspiciously to Susie, “What’s a grunion?” but Otter had launched himself again in the general direction of the cooler, and no longer had the ability to change course.
“What’s a grunion?” Susie asked her brother, furtively.
“I’ll go look it up.” He handed her the bowl, happy to substitute consulting the encyclopedia for shelling peas.
When he came back, he was laughing triumphantly. “Ha! It’s a bait fish!” Everybody laughed except Susie. Tillie spit out a mouthful of Pepsi, and Susie groaned, “Oh, no, not a fish!” She raced over to help Otter find his way back from the cooler so she might have a chance to change his mind.
Rabbit finished laughing, and shook her head. “Gawd, I know how she feels. But she’ll never get him to take back a name.”