From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

Welcome to part 3. Once again, if this is your first time here, you may click on the following link(s) to catch up on Part 1 or Part 2.

 

PART1

 

PART 2

 

**** THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK OF FICTION.  Any semblance to a person, place, or experience is 98.8% fabricated. 

****  Also, I’d like to call attention to the featured image, by the very talented, Chelsea McKenzie.

 

Mud Riding, Rivers, and Goodbyes

Inexplicably, I found myself going on and on. I must look like I’m playing the part of a dullard, sitting in the back of a bar, rambling to an old man, telling him a love story from my past, and sharing things that were personal, things that I thought I had pressed down and locked away, never to be shared. And I guess I’ve spent many hours there through the years, guarding myself, the single objective to not be seen as the garrulous, whiskey-soaked fool. On this night, however, I won the prize. But as I got to the last part, the part where we were in the back of the Mustang, suddenly I became silent, trapped at that moment; her bearing down on me and squeezing my neck with all her might.  As if the entire universe ceased to exist before or after that singular moment in time and space.

Gradually emerging, pulling back from my monologue, I began to reboot. I became aware once again of country music playing, people talking across the room, and then, Charla, our waitress standing in front of me, arm outstretched, setting down another drink and taking my empty. Embarrassed to be caught “spilling my guts,” the brown liquid in my glass became the totality of my focus.

After a minute, I gathered my thoughts and composure, and asked, “So Cullen, just who are these ‘spirits’ that I’ve pissed off?” Then, the big follow-up question was, “and why is it that I look around me and everywhere, I see people who are infinitely less deserving, but seem to just skim through this life with little effort and no accountability?” I took a sip and savored the warmth as it sat momentarily on my tongue, then burned as it moved down my throat, leaving behind, the essence of bourbon. The bourbon experience happens after it is swallowed, and the combined tastes of the charred oak, the air, the life that unfolded outside the barrel during the aging process while inside the barrel, the white liquid turned to brown.

Cullen, I noticed seemed to be enjoying himself. Elated to be the impetus of whatever “awakening” was transpiring within my soul and before us all. I am not lying when I say that this experience was becoming more surreal as we went along.  As it is with bourbon, another sip, another experience, distinctive from the one before.

Cullen took a long pull from his beer, grabbed a napkin, and dabbed his lips. Each action, I assumed, to buy time, valuable time, with which to gather his thoughts. Growing uncomfortable in anticipation of his response, I walked to the jukebox and lined up the next hours’ worth of music. I mean, if I’m going to proverbial hell at the hand of this Indian “mind reader,” then I’m going while listening to some representative music. A slight smile formed in the corner of his mouth and then he lifted his head, as if the answer he sought was written on one of the dollar bills stapled to the ceiling. He gazed at the ceiling for a while and I determined that he wasn’t deciding on what to tell me, but cyphering upon on what information I could handle.

Then Cullen began to speak, to enlighten me of a realm that exists, to the Choctaw and to the non-Choctaw alike. He said, “You are not in accord with Hushtahli or with Nanishtahullo-Chito.” You are not of one accord with Chitokaka, which means, “The Great One.”

Don’t quote me as I attempt to explain what Cullen told me about the spirits, the beliefs, and the mythology of the Choctaw nation. I may be spot on, but then again, I may have missed the point altogether. What I think I understand though is that the Choctaw people held at the center of their existence, the Sun. The Sun wasn’t worshipped as a god but was seen as a hole in the sky that allowed a supreme being to watch down on Earth. Cullen spoke of some of the different names for the spirits and that one spirit may have several different names. He spoke of some of the different elements of what would be Choctaw religious beliefs, specifically, that their spiritual beliefs were very personal and may mean one thing to one tribe and something else to another. Cullen started, but then became sort of vague as to details as to why I was not in sync with the spirits. I think that essentially, Cullen believed that everything in the known Universe, moves and exists in harmony with the spirits, or at least that is the best-case scenario. He said that every living thing has a natural predilection for living in this harmony. But those things who failed to pay attention to the life going on around them were apt to get caught up in the winds of the “Evil One.” All-in-all, I’d say that my new friend was going on a homogenized version of what he knew of Choctaw teachings and the sum of his understanding, gained over a lifetime and assembled into “the word according to Cullen.” Nevertheless, it suited me, at least on that Sunday afternoon in a bar with country music playing, seemingly stretching to be heard over a room full of jovial barroom regulars.

He continued for a while and then urged me forward, to continue to tell the story of the night, the mustang, and the girl. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I felt pretty good talking to this old man. It seemed to be uplifting and strangely like there might be answers to be found. Answers to long-forgotten questions. So I picked up where I left off.

“I awoke to that audible, yet inaudible sound of dawn breaking. The sun shimmered through the trees shedding light on the unfathomable fear that I was guilty of many ills from the night before.  Then I looked down at her sleeping soundly across my lap.  Usually, in these situations, I, being a male and possessing those innate qualities that tend to infuriate women because none of us understand said qualities, would feel the unstoppable need to run. Run like hell and make up some stupid excuse later if necessary. But this time, I felt none of that.  Mind you, I did want to get back to a fully clothed status and to get the hell out of our parking spot where anyone could happen upon us.  But I didn’t find myself wanting to run from the girl. On the contrary, I wanted to spend the entire rest of the weekend with her. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

We returned to my truck, and I followed her to her house. There, we took a long, long shower together, fell into her bed, and slept well into the afternoon.  We awoke, ordered pizza, and lounged around the pool until dusk.  We kissed, held hands, swam, and looked each other in the eyes.  The night before, in the Mustang, was hurried, primal, and out of control.  The next day, however, there was a completely different tone.  Somehow, this felt totally different and I found myself yielding to her rhythm.  She was so confident, so at ease, and comfortable to be with. I waited for her to direct, invite, I watched her, and I responded.  I listened, paid attention, and though I had no idea what I was doing, I just tried to move, neither pushing nor pulling. It all felt so natural, the entire experience, every experience with her was somehow familiar, yet every moment a new surprise, a heightened feeling, hard to explain.  It’s all like a dream now, like something I personally somehow witnessed from a distance, only too vivid for a dream.

She drifted off to sleep again but slumber evaded me. I lay there, reliving the prior day. I just could not believe where I was and what was going on at that very moment.  Since the seventh grade, I had been trying to figure out girls, desperate to find favor and most of the time getting it completely and hopelessly wrong.  By the time “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” came out years later, I had learned there was no volume out that could fully sum it all up. I only knew then that just two days prior I barely made plans for one day into the future.  I had no notion of the existence of the day after tomorrow. After that night though, I felt that I had experienced the opening of a portal and that I had been dropped into a different dimension, left to navigate and learn the rules of the game, what to do and what to pass.

We discussed the fact briefly, that we had that night, and maybe some of the next day, then it would be back to school for her and finding something more permanent for me.  She never asked the “Where is this going?” and the “What are we doing?” questions that usually plague a relationship that starts on a fast note. Since neither of us wanted to contemplate such a concept as “the future,” we just held each other tight, drunk with overwhelming senses of taste, touch, smell, and brown eyes staring into green.

Later, we dressed and drove around town, stopped for pizza, then met up with friends in a vacant grocery store parking lot. We made it through the quizzical looks and I noticed some of the girls whispering as gradually everyone caught on that we were together. I’m sure I walked a little more confidently with the knowledge that some of my guy friends were envious that not only had I found a beautiful girlfriend, but I had also scaled the imaginary wall that separated us. To be honest, it wasn’t a wall at all, it was a river. The river divided the county almost diagonally from near the Northwest corner towards the Southeast corner and was basically the Western border of the county seat. The span of the river wasn’t that great, and there were two bridges crossing it, making it relatively easy to cross from one side to the next.  At the time though, due to old prejudices, girls from the Eastside of the river just didn’t date guys from beyond the Western banks. Who knows the origin of the divide, but it was a real thing. We all had friends and acquaintances from the “other side” of the river, but it generally stopped there. It was not uncommon for older ladies from the Eastside to whisper the words, “other side of the river” when inquiring about a person. The same ladies also whispered the words, “pool hall” when issuing instructive warnings to teenagers when listing places to stay away from. Summarily, I guess, pool halls and guys from the West side of the river held a similar stigma. I know of no such prohibitions for the daughters of parents from the West side of the river. At any rate, she seemed unbiased and unashamed of my address, and her willingness to set aside old mores made me feel special.

Of course, we are talking about South Mississippi in the early Eighties, so there were no cell phones, no text messages, no Twitter, Facebook, and there was no Instagram. The only way to communicate with friends was to find them in town.  As such, in small towns like ours, different groups found and established their own location to gather.  There might be a group of race car enthusiasts on one corner, older “hippie” types on another, and a group of younger teens somewhere else.  These locations weren’t exclusive as one car might stop at 4 or 5 different places, but the locations served as a good place to find people, once it was learned where one person was more likely to be found.

We stopped at a parking lot where several pickup trucks and jeeps had gathered.  We got there just as an off-road ride was being planned.  A couple in a 1980 Jeep CJ-7 invited us to ride with them so we climbed in the back seat.  In moments we were in a line of about fourteen jeeps and trucks screaming out of town.  We crossed the river that served as the Western border of the town, left the road with the glow of the lights behind us only stopping briefly to lock in wheel hubs for 4-wheel drive.  A winding muddy path lay in front with holes, ruts, and wet tree limbs to contend with.  Within a few short minutes, mud was slinging, music was blaring, girls were squealing, and guys hooped and hollered.  I looked at her through filtered light and saw a huge smile across her face and I remember thinking “wow! Just wow!”  But there wasn’t time for stopping to admire the beautiful creature beside me, because the ride was intense.  The path opened to a long glowing white sandbar, the black of the river to the left and thick trees and underbrush to the right.  Vehicles circled and stopped. Limbs were gathered and a fire started, music now limited to one stereo.  We sat on tailgates, ice chests, and leaned against muddy bumpers.  Generally, this was a Saturday night routine.  It was Southern small-town youth, beer, music, away from parents, and watching for the law.  It might be a sandbar tonight, a big field next week, or if we were lucky, a camp on the river, no one sure of the owner and certainly not certain if permission had been granted for the use thereof.

The music stopped momentarily as the cassette tape was changed from Journey to Jefferson Starship, and the familiar beginning to “Jane” began to play. “Jane” was followed by “Lightning Rose,” “Things to come,” “Awakening,” and by the time “The Girl with the Hungry Eyes” came on, we were all in a festive mood.  My “girl with hungry eyes” was talking to a friend, her face lit by the glow of the fire, and I thought as a popular beer commercial at the time would say, “it just doesn’t get any better than this.”

Hours passed as jeeps would fire up, run up and down the sandbar, racing engines, and blowing off steam.  I’d sneak a quick hug or kiss from time to time, then, I might be called upon to help winch a jeep out of a hole.  Eventually, our numbers lessened as curfews had to be met, members of the group found reasons to leave, then finally, the fire dwindled.  We informed the couple we were riding with that we had a house to ourselves and inquired as to the possibility that they might want to hang out with us there.

Inviting another couple to hang out with us felt a little like we were a couple who had been together for years.  Her girlfriend made reference to this a couple of times.  Including another couple also served to take a little pressure off of us as we had only met a little over twenty-four hours prior.  We all drank some more, splashed around in the pool, then adjourned to separate rooms.  We fell asleep in each other’s arms never hearing the other couple leave.

Sunday morning came and went and by the time we lazily began to stir, it was almost 1:00 PM. I couldn’t believe how exhausted I was, how excited I was, and how this simply couldn’t be happening to me, though the evidence was right before me. She walked around the house nude, preparing toast and orange juice, offered coffee, and I wondered again how it was that she seemed so much more mature than any of the girls that I knew and far more mature than I was.

Our weekend ended before we were ready when she received a phone call from her mother with a report of their “ETA.”  Our departure was hastened by their imminent arrival home and our responsibility to hide evidence that she had had “company” while her parents were out of town. We found time for one more quick encounter which was heated by the chance of getting caught by her parental units, and I’m pretty sure I saw their vehicle in my rearview mirror as I exited her subdivision, my tee-shirt on the seat beside me and the smell of her on my body.

I ventured back home and fell across my bed, staring at the ceiling, as best as I could, reliving every moment of every hour since the previous Friday night.  I guess I had been there staring at the ceiling long enough that I drifted off to sleep.  I dreamed of nothing, I dreamed of nothing.

The August dog day sun dropped below the tree line sending streams of shadows across the floor, bed and advanced up the walls of my bedroom.  I jerked to life at the sound of knocking on my front door.  My eyes met a smiling green-eyed beauty.   She greeted me with a hug, then pulling away; she came down hard with hands balled into fists, landing across my chest.  I stepped back, surprised by this action.  I grabbed her wrists, and cried, “What was that for?”  She stepped around me, moving into the entryway of the house.  Turning to me, I noticed tears in her eyes, and immediately an inexperienced boy stood there in total confusion.  “I’m leaving at four in the morning, and I’ll be hours away and this will be over as quickly as it started.” I had no response, I had no response.  I just stood there.  “When will you be coming back?” She turned again and told me that it would be probably weeks and then it would only be for a weekend.

She said she had made an excuse, something about forgetting a pair of shoes that she had loaned a friend, and came to see me before leaving and that she didn’t have much time. She kissed me long. She kissed me hard, and then she pushed away from me. The tears were starting again and she wasn’t able to look at me directly, which was mystifying to me. Stupefied, I attempted to summon words, to summon questions, but she placed a finger on my lips. She reached for the back pocket of her denim shorts, produced a folded slip of paper, kissed my cheek, and turned to leave. I grabbed her arm but she pulled away. She managed to say, “I have to go.” I followed her outside and she looked up only once as she put her car into reverse and started to back away. I will remember that half-crooked smile as she gave a half wave, then disappeared into the night.

 

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