He opened the desk drawer and picked up a pen, put it down, picked up a second, put it down, then stared into the drawer blankly for a full minute. His voice said aloud, "Jesus, asshole! What's the difference?" He grabbed one but his hand still found it necessary to explore the feel of three more before it became satisfied with the balance, or whatever it was that had made the choice so difficult to begin with.
He proceeded to carefully address the letter, printing with precise, exact strokes of the pen. Twenty minutes passed as he named the letter's destination. The slightest of smirks came to his face as the habit of placing a return address moved his hand toward the upper left hand corner of the envelope. He hesitated, then shrugged and took another ten minutes to complete that, as precisely as he had done the address.
Finally done, he turned the letter over and dipped his index finger in the glass of Jack Daniels that sat beside him. As if finger-painting, he drew the shiny digit along the glue of the envelope to moisten it, then carefully folded the flap ever and sealed the letter. He rubbed the seal absentmindedly for several minutes, his eyes unfocused and staring, then slowly drew up in his chair, took an incredibly deep breath and blew the air out in a barely audible stream like a long soft whisper.
He again opened the desk drawer and took a small packet of stamps from the interior. He separated one from the others, passed it lightly across the tip of his tongue and placed it exactly in the upper right hand corner of the letter. He rubbed his thumb in a tiny circle on the face of the stamp and, as he did, he thought of his childhood stamp collection and the happy hours he had spent with his father as they had carefully placed new issues into their proper places in the "Stamps of the World' book. He smiled at the attack of nostalgia, abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up.
He interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms overhead, palms up and straining toward the ceiling, which brought about a deep and extremely satisfying yawn. He dropped his arms to his side, cracked his neck from side to side, then spoke. " Done." was all he said, and placed the letter into his shirt pocket, being careful not to bend the corners of it as it slid firmly into place.
He briefly considered the jeep, then walked over to the corral and whistled for his horse. He threw a halter on him, grabbed a handful of mane, and jumped on. The air was hot Colorado July as he headed the gelding down the mountain. Slowly, the horse and he moved the three miles toward the road.
At the mailbox, he almost primly slid the letter out of his pocket and placed it so that it rested at a 45 degree angle against the inside of the lid, then gently closed it securely, and with the utmost deliberation, raised the red flag.
He got back on the horse, sat for a moment, then in a sudden violent fury, he yanked the horse around, dug his heels in the bay's sides and bolted up the hill. Dodging branches, racing, scrambling, sweating, they tore back to the house. He jumped off, opened the corral, took the halter off, slapped the horse's rump and hollered, "Walk yourself dry!"
Breathing in gasps, he walked into the house, went to the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer. Popped the top and sent the contents down his throat in long deep swallows. His mouth overflowed, sending streams of foam cascading down his chin and onto the floor. He paused in the middle of the room, then went back to the refrigerator, and grabbed the remaining four cans by the plastic ring holder and hauled them out. He pried another can out of its place, opened it and drank it as he walked, the last three cans swaying from the tip of his finger, gently banging his lower thigh as he entered the living room.
After a pause he said, "Think I'll build a fire. It's too hot, but so what?" He sat down in front of the freshly started blaze, removed his boots, socks, and shirt and threw them carelessly across the room. He stood, unfastened his levis, and let them drop to the floor. He then slid his underwear down his legs and stepped on the cuff of the jeans and pulled one foot out, then repeated the operation with the other so that he now stood naked. He looked around the room, then down at the puddle of clothes at his feet, then at the fire. He shook his head slowly, giggled, and sat back down.
Two hours he spent, staring at the flames, watching the heat eat away the logs until they were a pile of orange-red chunks glowing so hard they made his eyes hurt, even in the daylight.
Now very slowly, he drained the last, long warm, swallow of beer that remained in the can he had been holding. He unfolded out of the chair and walked to his desk where he filled the glass sitting there with Jack Daniels. He stood now, his naked body wet with the heat of the fire and drank in stages, letting each mouthful roll on his tongue till it burned and then closing his eyes as it seared down his throat into his belly. "Best god-damned whisky in the world."
He turned like a ballet dancer on one foot, took two steps to the cabinet, then walked outside. The sun was beginning to throw shadows across the valley. He watched a squirrel run for cover as he looked out over his mountains.
Then he raised the J.C. Higgins - Model 12. "Good gun," he said. "Too bad they don't make 'em anymore," and blew his brains all over the sky.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
No comments:
Post a Comment