When it was light enough to see, Marty got up and drank four glasses of water with some aspirin, then checked the house. He was alone, so it really appeared as though he had driven home without remembering a damn thing. This has got to stop, he reflected indistinctly through the pounding of the stamp mill in his head. Good thing I have today off… I have a green monkey on my back, and totally need a day in the woods alone. When all he could see any more was his pain, he could no longer see God, and had to go find her and tell her what a shitty job she was doing.
He left the house without taking any water, food, or a jacket. Those kinds of luxuries were mere impediments to true understanding. Marty’s “essential self” needed to disappear into the deep forest. He walked quickly past the China House, not wanting to see any rednecks or humans, which are practically the same thing. Once inside the State Park, he took the first ravine that presented itself on the uphill side, and followed it a ways, then cut over to the next one, and zig-zagged his way up an unexplored spur of Mt. Barnabe. I’ll bet no human has been in this spot before, he kept remarking to himself as he intentionally sought the least likely way to go. He weaved his way through the woods Injun-style, avoiding poison oak, placing his feet carefully, and sliding between tree trunks. He became a creature of the forest, moving between the plants like a butterfly. Heart pounding and wheezing from the exertion, he reached the edge of the woods near the top where it opened onto undulating flanks of green shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun. The hills were just starting to turn brown, with the grass at its lushest peak of growth; ripe seed heads bursting amber fireworks into an azure sky.
“I’m going to miss this,” came a silent voice from deep within. The watcher inside, the one who constantly monitored his thoughts and was aware of his feelings, made a rare announcement in Marty’s consciousness. “This is not the only type of existence…” it continued in a tone that suggested there was more to be said, but as soon as he began to focus and listen it was gone. He waited for a while in the sun, and even went back to where he first heard the voice, as if he might pick it up again like a radio signal, but there was nothing… only the memory of the dangling conversation. Impulsively, Marty took off running across the breast of the hill and plunged into the next ravine. He met up with a deer trail, and followed it pell-mell through the trees that were choking the gully, dodging and twisting like a skier on a slalom run. Running away from his problems turned out to be an exhilarating experience! His legs had recovered their agility, and expertly navigated the course while the racer planned for the next obstacle – and the next – and, oh shit! An unexpected drop hyperextended his left knee a little, setting off all the alarms, and he shifted his weight immediately and tumbled, crashing into a bushy old tangle of bay laurel as if it were a snowdrift. Fortunately, the fragrant new leaves cushioned Marty’s fall, and as he lay twisted in the foliage, all scratched up and catching his breath, he heard Kirk exclaim, “Scotty! I need a damage report!”
Marty extracted himself from the pungent leaves and gingerly tested his left leg. It felt solid, but there was some pain under the kneecap that was worrisome. He continued his descent at a more reasonable pace, but simmered with anxiety as if he could burst into warp speed at any time. If only I could leave this part of the galaxy behind and seek out new worlds, he fantasized glumly. It’s such a pain (literally) to be stuck inside this second-rate body. I’ll probably get poison oak from this, too. When he finished lamenting the sorry state of his existence, Marty noticed he was extremely hungry. Food goes in one end, he mused wryly, and feces come out the other. I’m just a freakin’ shit machine! He laughed harshly at the same old, tired joke.
A part of him was hoping he’d never find his way home, but it was impossible to get lost in that canyon. All the terrain flowed downhill until meeting the creek and the railroad bed, and from there he could find his way in the dark, blindfolded. The Rusty Bucket Ranch cabin was in the same spot where he’d left it, but it wasn’t really welcoming him back. Annie’s Bronco was in the driveway, which probably meant his room was inaccessible, anyway. He went straight to the kitchen and scarfed a pot full of leftover chili with a semi-cold beer and a huge hunk of stale sourdough bread that would have given a raccoon indigestion. Faint erotic sound effects filtered through the walls from the bedroom he still shared with Mike, so he headed back outside with another hair of the dog – and the rest of him followed, too, as Keno also had cabin fever. The two of them traversed the creek bank upstream towards the McAuliffes’ place, not going anywhere in particular and enjoying the view. Krishna followed at a distance, mock-stalking them for practice. She was mostly an outdoor cat now, but kept herself in great condition, coming inside only for food and a neck massage once in a while.
Marty strangely felt as if he was being drawn to the den of Earl the Spook. The door to the McAuliffes’ basement confronted him at the edge of their property, and he was compelled in a very casual manner to go and open it. Even if someone was in there, they wouldn’t care. The Lagunitas Triangle had open borders, and the residents came and went as they pleased. There was no tension or trepidation about entering the room where a man had hanged himself. It was just another portal of transference in the universe, and had no real meaning one way or the other. Marty opened the door wide to cast the light inside, and walked in. The usual astonishing variety of junk assaulted his senses, clamoring for a moment of recognition so it might live again. Traffic signs and fishing gear, antiques, books, and boxes of papers filled every nook and cranny. He flipped the light switch – an ancient contraption that belonged in a mad scientist’s laboratory – and illuminated the threshold through which Earl had left. There was the rafter from which he had hung himself. It was a floor joist and could not be removed, and so it remained in mute testament to its complicity.
His former living space was littered with all kinds of strange books and electronic devices in various stages of disassembly. Marty picked up a copy of The Dancing Wu Li Masters by Gary Zukav and thumbed through the pages. Earl was really into this physics stuff, he remembered, as random snatches of his convoluted conversations echoed on the pages. He was a really smart guy, Marty considered; I wonder why he did it? Or more precisely, what was the one thought that caused him to actually step off that stool into oblivion? He felt as if knowing the answer to that question was terribly important, and he searched through the artifacts for a clue. All his notes and personal belongings had been shipped back to his family, so there was nothing but a postcard wedged into a crack. It was a miniature of the poster Marty had seen in the hospital of a kitten clinging desperately to a branch, with the caption, “Hang in there!” How ironic, he snorted, glancing up at the rafter. There was an old traffic sign nailed up there that said, “Exit.” It was getting dark and hard to see, and he suddenly sensed he had to get out of there, and rushed back outside where Keno was waiting for him with a worried expression on his face. He knew what Marty had been thinking.
Krishna was perched on Gilly’s surfboard rack, and he thoughtfully petted her for a while. She purred self-consciously, drawing the affection inside of herself the way a sponge absorbs water. Her feline receptivity washed Marty’s soul clean, and the darkness withdrew for a spell. He needed a shower after his hike, and it was time to see if he could get in his room yet. He drifted through the deepening twilight shadows of the dense redwood forest, and the trees seemed to be calling him home.