A Brief and Sincere History Pt.1 (Draft 1.0)

A book I am starting to write. Any feedback, negative or positive, is much appreciated.

A Brief and Sincere History


Chapter 1

Home Street Middle School was pinkish in color and had a huge decommissioned smoke stack jutting up from its roof. The stack was the tallest structure in town and remained from the building's past life as a sawmill. It sat just a couple blocks west from the intersection of Line Street and Main Street, an intersection that was indisputably the center of Bishop. The building was shaped like a capital letter “E” with each branch of the letter-shaped building being a hallway with a different grade of the the school (6th, 7th, and 8th) in each of the three wings. The ends of the hallways all pointed towards the main schoolyard where we had recess and ate lunch. When the bell rang at 3:05 PM class was dismissed. Each individual grade would file out of their respective hall and reorganize into lines for the school buses to take us home. I exited out of the 7th grade hallway which was in the middle of the other two. The school buses, after picking up the elementary school kids, but before picking up the high school kids, would one by one swing into the parking lot, then back up into their parking spaces, lining up in order from left to right by bus number.
The buses where numbered 1 though 27. Buses 1 through 4 were the oldest buses. They where shaped like Twinkies and had dark green, thinly padded seats, which had short backrests framed by metal tubes, that even on us kids only came up to our shoulder blades when sitting down. The seats were uncomfortable. They were only made even more uncomfortable by the extremely bumpy ride and the tremendous noise of the engine, which all the kids would scream over in a deafening roar. These buses would go to the east part of town, the oldest and most crowded part of Bishop. The houses had no yards or very small ones and a lot of people lived in apartments. All the kids it seemed wear clothes from K-Mart and generally had bad haircuts.
Buses 5 through 9 were still the same snack shape as the others but were also considerably newer. The seat backs were tall, above my head, and somewhat comfortable. Also, the engine was not so loud and the ride not so rough. Bus 7 was my bus. It would go through parts of the Paiute Reservation and on up into unincorporated North Bishop, which is where I lived.
The buses then suddenly skipped numbers 10-24 for some reason. The next buses where numbers 25-29 and these buses were the newest and nicest buses. They were shaped like rectangles and would lower to the ground when parked to make getting in easier. Their engines made just a soft hum and unlike the other buses with manual transmissions, which the drivers constantly wrestled with as they drove, the square buses were automatic and glided over the road like riding on a hovercraft. These buses would go the to West Bishop and the secluded community of Starlight. These where the nicest parts of town. We always would drive through them at Christmas time because they had the biggest, most beautiful lights on their large houses and endless lawns.
It was late spring and it was very warm outside. You could feel that summer was coming soon. Most of us were in tee-shirts for the first time since last year and everyone was full of energy. I remember Chris had just gotten out of band practice and while we waited for the bus he was playing Taps on his Tri-Tom drums. He was walking up to groups of girls having conversations and following them around while playing the drums loudly to their great irritation. He was always a jackass, but that was part of his charm and he could be fun to be around. I hadn't been hanging out with Chris for that long and usually wouldn't be standing over by is bus, number twenty-six, but I did not want to wait in my bus line that day.
I had always rode bus seven home. As a child I really did not have a lot of friends that live by me and those who did got picked up from school by their parents. So, usually when I rode the bus I would just try to find an empty seat and would look quietly out the window. Sometimes, when the middle and high school kids would get on there would be no open seats left, so somebody would have to sit next to me. But they usually just talked to their friends and left me alone. But one day when I was in third grade a middle school boy sat next to me. I remember it because that day the bus was not full and there were plenty of available seats in the back. I wondered why he had sat next to me? He was a skinny pale guy with straight, greasy, black hair that extended down over past his ears and eyes. He had his headphones on with his head hung down looking towards the floor. Looking over at him all I could see through his hair was a long pointy nose above a wispy mustache and an acne covered chin. He never looked at me or said a word and got off at the stop just before mine. Everyday after that he would always sit next me. I do not know his name, we never talked, and I never saw him ever even look at me, but for the next couple years he would be my silent companion accompanying me home everyday. It was in 5th grade I joined the pee-wee football team and soon met some friends that rode the same bus as me. I would sit with them and soon lost track of my silent friend over the next few years.
I said goodbye to Chris, got on my bus, found an empty seat, and looked quietly out the window. When we got to the high school one of the fist students that got the bus on sat next to me. It was my old quiet companion. He looked at me this time, and gave a slight upward nod as if to say, “hey, I remember you.” Just then another high school boy wearing a letterman jacket walked by and gave my seatmate a hard wack on is head, which knocked his headphones off. He did not look at the person who hit him, whom continued to walk down the isle chuckling with his friends, but just put his headphones back on, hung his head down, and did not look up or say anything the entire ride home.
The bus went west on Line Street a short distance before turning north on Barlow Lane through the reservation. After a few stops there, the bus would continue into North Bishop. The bus was still mostly full and there was only two stops after that. The first stop was the “back gate” of Highlands Mobile Home Park, which is where almost all the kids got off. This gate into park was pedestrian only, so a mob of kids would walk off the bus and stream into the park, eventually dispersing to their homes. After that stop I sat alone and usually there where only a few of us at most left on the bus for the last stop. The bus would continue north on Barlow until reaching Dixon Lane, which was the last paved street on the north side of town. Turing east onto Dixon there was my neighborhood to the right. Most of the people considered it the “redneck” part of town as there were no sidewalks, dirt driveways, and most of the the houses were small on big overgrown lots which always had a stack of firewood somewhere on it. To the left was nothing but miles of fragrant Sage Brush and bright yellow Rabbit Brush that rolled over the valley floor punctuated by canals and cattle pastures.
I got off alone at the last bus stop, which let us off at a large dirt parking lot of a plastics company called Cal-Tron. It was at the corner of Dixon and Valley View Drive - the street I lived on. The parking lot was a place I spent a lot of time at. It was just across the street from Billy's house and we would always be out there building dirt jumps to ride our bikes over. Every once in a while, Billy's step brother would bring his motorcycle out and let us ride it and that lot is where I learned to ride a dirt bike.
That day I tried to walk as fast as I could through that parking lot and kept my eyes fixed away from Billy's house. As soon as I had past by his house, and I was sure no one could see me, I slowed my walk. It wasn't more than 500 feet to my house and usually only took a minute to get there, but that day I took very small steps, almost heel to toe, as I waddled with my head hung down. As I approached the house my mom was outside alone sitting on the porch. This was unusual as she usually only sat out there when she had her friends over or with my step-dad after he got off work. The late afternoon sun was approaching the tops of the still snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, which towered over the valley floor, and a vibrant orange light, as bright as the Tiger Lilly flowers in our front yard, bathed the sky and the air itself.
As I approached I could see that she was drinking a Tecate beer mixed with tomato juice in a frosted glass. I could also tell she had something to say to me. I didn't want to talk to her though. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to talk to anyone. I was trying my hardest not to think about anything. Not to talk about anything. I tried to walk by her and go inside but as I got close she said,
“You know... I talked to Billy's parents today?”
I stopped and slowly lifted my head to meet her intense green eyes staring at me from under her fiery red hair. She sat with her legs crossed, with one hand around her drink on the table, and the other across her lap. In a blunt tone and while slightly squinting her eyes she continued,
“They think it is your fault, and you know... it kind of is.”

Chapter 2


This is what you wanted. I just wish I wouldn't have that taken that last hit at the trailhead. I think there was an air bubble in there, or maybe even worst, some dirt. You were afraid of not being able to make it far enough in. That you would get the itch and turn back. Turn back down the trail, back down the highway, back down the street to dude-man's door.
You don't have to worry about that now do you? 17 miles in now. Only 17 miles out, but after hiking in for 3 days it has been snowing for the last 5 days, so it must have been 8 days now. When I look at the map, at the little “X” I scribbled on there 6 days ago, I think, I am at about 7,100 ft elevation. That would make sense because it is very cold. I only packed 10 days worth of food, but luckily I haven't eaten in 4 days. My gut and every other part of me has hurt to much to move let alone eat. And I am so very cold.
I think I can move today. I need to eat. I need to get out of here... I am going to try. I extend my left arm out from my sleeping bag and try to lift myself up, when it feels like a knife rips down the inside length of my forearm from my fingertips to my elbow, and I collapse back to the ground. I tenderly pull my sleeve back from my arm and take the ripped glove off of my hand. The tips of my fingers are black. I look to the crook of my elbow and there is a hole the size of a dime that resembles a little asteroid crater. Blood and puss flows out of it with black streaks extending away from the infected wound radially down my veins and arteries. I put my sleeve down and glove back on. I try my other arm. No pain. I am finally able to lift myself up to an upright position, so I will not look at that arm. My pack is still open and I reach inside and pull out a bag of jerky. It is frozen, but I gnaw into like I was chewing fibrous ice and finish off the bag.
Still hungry, I reach in to my backpack again to pull out the trail mix I know is in there, and as I pull it out a folded piece of paper falls out with it. I stare at it sitting on the tent floor, the paper getting wet from the smatter of snow that made it through the door previously. Tears well to my eyes and run down my face freezing to my cheeks. I reach over to the zipper on my tent and open it up. A blinding light blast through. It has stopped snowing. The foot or so of October snow reflects brightly against the all blue sky. I pick up the letter and unfold it revealing my chicken-scratch handwriting scrawled upon several pages:

Dear Mia,

I am sure it is a surprise receiving this letter from me. Joe gave me your address. Please don't be mad at him. I know you made it clear you never wanted to see or talk to me again and for whatever it is worth ...I am sorry. I know that probably means nothing to you. But, I do not want to talk about us or what happened and do not think I am trying to see you again. In fact, quite the opposite. If you haven't already thrown away this letter, I just want to tell you where I have been the last 7 years and I want you to know where I am at. Please, I don't know who else to send this to.
I think you know that after... everything.... I moved up to the city. I went up there because the hotel I was working at offered to transfer for a management position. It was the darnedest thing, because you know how much I was drinking before and that has only increased exponentially since. Yet, somehow, I did it! It was a great paying job and it was my life. Well, rather it competed with alcohol for the what-runs-my-life contest, and eventually there wasn't enough room for the both of them. The job lost out.
I always thought I was a good boss. I felt like got along with everyone. Well... almost everyone, and I felt like I had a lot of good friends there. But as “Zee Bozz,” I couldn't be friends with my underlings. Hell, I might have to fire them tomorrow. So, when I got fired I thought I would have lots of friends to hang out with now I wasn't their boss. That was folly. It was about then I remembered my McDonald's manager Jesus. You couldn't wack the smile off that guys face with the hard swing of a baseball bat, and his relentless, phony, positive, can-do attitude did, in fact, make you want to hit him in the face with a baseball bat. But, he thought everybody loved him, and despite being an annoying prick he did love his employees. The fact was, as my many outgoing texts to my former employees that remain answered attest to, if he had asked me me to hang out with him outside of work I would have smiled and said yes to his face, then never showed up and mock him relentlessly with my co-workers. But, he was smarter than that and would have never made himself so vulnerable.
That was six months ago. I got unemployment, but that ran out a couple weeks ago. I never tried to get another job and have fallen back into bad habits. Yeah... those bad habits. And, I know I said I wouldn't ever do it... but I started using needles. I can't make rent and I haven't made a car payment in a couple months. I decided to move out during the night. Run before the eviction notice is posted and my car is repossessed. I feel bad screwing over my roommates, and I am not looking forward to having a warrant, but, as you know, I have done it before... and here I am doing it again. This is the last time though. I can't go on like this. I decided to I have to change or die trying.
Thee days ago I packed up what little I hadn't already thrown away, left the city, and drove to the Strawberry Mountains. I parked and abandoned my car at the trailhead near John Day off highway 26. The trailhead is in a pretty remote area and I do not think my car will be found for a while. My plan is to hike from here to the nearest city south, Seneca, about 50 miles away. I figure it it will take a couple weeks, but don't worry, I have, like, over a month worth of food. And I am going to stay in these mountains, for weeks if I have to, and when I come out I will be clean. I promise.
Because the last two days have been nothing short of beautiful. After leaving the trailhead I took my time, enjoying nothing other than the sun, the sights, and the sound of nature. I walked slowly with a smile so glad that I was truly away from my problems. Yesterday, I woke up to another gorgeous day and made it to Strawberry Lake. Beautiful. But, today! Today, this morning when I woke up the sky was overcast yet dry and the clouds low yet bright white in color. A low lake fog had formed and there was just enough of a breeze to cause the fog to gently sway and swirl across the still glass surface of the water. It was hypnotic. Then, out of the low clouds came a diving bald eagle! Its wings blasting away the fog, it hit the lake at speed causing the whole lake to erupt in ripples, and scooped up a large fish with its talons. Rising up right over my head it exited the lake basin back to its cliff-side roost within the clouds.
I knew then I was going to be OK. And even though I don't feel great today and it is definitely a little colder, I am about to climb up and over the big ridge today and I am ready. I am ready for the hardest journey of my life. When I get to Seneca I will mail this letter to you and after that I plan to start hitch-hiking east. I am going to start a new life. Somewhere. Somehow. So, I hope you get this, and if you don't I won't know, so I am just going imagine in a perfect world you did get this letter and are still reading this sentence. And if you are still reading this sentence, maybe someday, someway, we will meet again. Maybe not now, maybe in another seven years, but I will wait. My true, one, and only friend.

Chapter 3

My dirt bike ran out of fuel in the middle of the scrub brush. Luckily, it had stopped right in front of a train station. It was the hottest heat of the summer, and I was miles away from anything familiar, so I though I would go in and ask for some petrol. As I walked up the splintered pine wood steps to the barely standing wooden shack of a ticket ticket office, an engraved granite sign stood above the handrail that said “NO PETROLEUM PRODUCTS AVAILABLE.” Being stranded and having no where else to go I figured I would inquire about a train ticket. As I walked up the ticket window I found it was closed, but on the outside counter lied a ticket with my name printed in seven languages. The destination had been torn off other than the word “MONUMENTS.” I took the ticket, assuming it was mine, and proceeded to the loading docks.
The train arriving at the station was a curious thing, as the locomotive and all of its cars in tow had no wheels. Yet, the train kept moving. With axles glowing red, shooting sparks in all directions, and a terrible metal on metal grinding shriek that slowly subsided as the train came to a stop inside the station. Even with the train stopped the wheel-less axles glowed lava red until a crew of men, all with bowler hats, mustaches, and suspenders, emerged from somewhere behind me, throwing buckets of water until the metal cooled and steam enveloped the air.
Above the conductor's windshield a sign with the train's destination read, “MONUMENTS THAT ARE ALWAYS THERE AND NEVER LEAVING.” This must be my train. I do not remember getting on, but I remember finding a window seat and looking out at the station before the train pulled away. I saw out the window my mom, sitting in a lawn chair with her legs crossed, a red drink in one hand, and the other had resting across her lap. Next to her was Chris. He's laughing maniacally, playing Taps with two hands, and flipping me the bird with the other. Next to him was Tommy G. Tommy was dressed in the navy blue uniform of the Union Army from the Civil War. He wore captain stripes and stood at attention. As the train pulled away the metallic squeal slowly grew into a maddening howl. The train picked up speed and the sparks once again started to fly off the where the wheels should be obscuring my view out the window. However, before my view was consumed my flying fire, through the iron sparks, I saw Tommy raise his arm to his head in a soldier's salute. As he did, his eyes watered, and tears flowed, evaporating into steam as they ran down his cheeks.