THE STAIRCASE
#139 - He wanted something to drink. Stinnie told him the store was about fifteen miles away and only had 3.2 beer, and that he wasn’t going to drive him there.
Welcome to Before I Forget . .
I’m glad you are here. Thank you for your time.
THE STAIRCASE
Busted. Busted again. Except this time, in Las Vegas, fourteen hundred miles from home and with just enough money for gas and food to get there. Hopefully.
Some food, liquor mainly. He was burning the candle at both ends.
The route home was easy enough. Interstate 15 north to 70 east.
He hated going home; he left with things such a mess. But he had nowhere else to go.
He knew he had to straighten up and fly right.
Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.
“Hey! Wake up!”
His heavy blurry eyes opened to a face full of sunlight and the voice at his side door.
He lowered the window. The smell of alcohol escaped the car’s confines.
“Jeez, son, it stinks. What are you doing here? Where you going?”
His thoughts were coming together.
“My car started riding rough. I pulled over. How far is it to I-70?”
“I-70? Son, you are seriously lost. You’re on The Staircase.”
“The what? Is that near Cedar City? I got gas.”
The old man laughed, “That’s a hundred and fifty miles back. 70 is a hundred and fifty miles ahead.
“Look behind you. There is nothing but drop-offs on either side of the road. That’s The Staircase. Daunting in daylight and not a road for driving drunk.
“You trying to kill yourself, son?
The young man stared into the expanse, blinking, trying to piece things together.
He asked, “Is today Thursday?”
“Yes. That’s some guardian angel you have. You’re lucky to be alive.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Eric. Eric Soren.”
It wasn’t the first time Eric had blacked out. His drinking was out of control. He couldn’t stop.
He half-swooned, rubbed his eyes, and a splitting headache and shakes came over him. “I’m thirsty.”
“Here, Eric.” The man had retrieved a bottle of water from his tractor. “Drink this. Let’s clean up the floorboard trash. Put it in the trunk for now. You would go to jail if a Trooper saw these bottles. This is a state highway, it gets patrolled even out here in the boonies.
The car ran but it wasn’t running right. Plugs, maybe the gas pump. Eric was no mechanic.
The old man, Stinson ‘Stinnie’ Keeler, followed Eric in his car up the hill to his place, a wide spot atop a small mesa. A couple hundred acres for cattle and hay.
It had a clear view of where Eric had pulled over and the highway on down the narrow winding staircase.
Stinnie called a friend of his, who was handy around cars. Gerald said he would come out on Monday to look at it. He was twenty miles away in Boulder.
If the friend couldn’t fix it, it would be expensive and time-consuming. Probably not worth the repair. Eric didn’t have enough money, anyway.
Then what to do with the car? And then, hitchhike home?
Stinnie told Eric he could stay at his place until then.
It was the beginning of a very long weekend for Eric.
He wanted something to drink. Stinnie told him the only store was about fifteen miles away and only had 3.2 beer, and that he wasn’t going to drive him there.
On Saturday afternoon, Eric woke up from his tossing and turning and shaking and sweats and chills and demons and throwing up. He’d heard a scream at some point but didn’t know if it was his or not. He got a few hours good sleep.
He was famished. Stinnie had a pot of stew warming on the stove.
Eric said, “I don’t have the money to repay your kindness.”
“We’ll work something out. I could use your help out in the barn.”
“Okay, do you want to get started?”
“How about you resting up some more? Get another night’s sleep.
“I’m up at five. I’ll wake you if you’re not up. We’ll have breakfast and go.”’
He ate and went back to bed.
He woke up rested, just before Stinnie knocked on the door. His stomach felt light and at ease with itself. The day’s work was long and hard. He got stiff and sore. Mucking corrals and pens will do that to you. But he felt, - good.
He missed his days on the farm, before his dad had to sell the place and they moved to the city.
Gerald pulled up the driveway about nine the next morning.
After intros and thanks for coming out, Eric told Gerald his funds were “limited, at best.”
Gerald said, “I see. Well, let’s take a look under the hood and see what we’re dealing with. Then we’ll talk.”
He checked the plugs. “Two of them are fouled and all of them are dirty. Way dirty. When did you last change them?”
“I haven’t. I’ve had the car four months. I don’t know its history.”
“There could be something else also. If it gets too involved, I don’t have the skills. Cleaning the plugs would be a good place to start and an easy fix.
“I’ll do ‘em for a hundred bucks. Wires and plugs, cleaned and set. What do you think?”
“Well, that’s good. But I don’t have the money.”
“I know. You’ll pay me back?”
“Yes. Give me your address, I’ll send the money.”
“Okay,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
Then he ducked under the hood.
Then he came back up and said, “Can you work a chainsaw?”
It had been years, but “Yeah. Why?”
“Over in Boulder, the Forest Service is hiring. They are cleaning up after last year’s fire. Up near the tree line. Cutting timber down to burn piles and mulch mounds. Pay is good, they house and feed you. Hard work, though. A bonus if you stay all season.
“Been thinking about hiring on myself.”
A jolt ran through Eric. A job!? He’d do it. Better than going home, at least for now. He felt good here, far from the poker tables and the alcohol he knew he had to quit.
It was the plugs. All cleaned up, the old car ran as good as ever.
He got back from his first stint in the timber, and with his pay, he paid Gerald for his work and Stinnie for his hospitality and for giving him a place where he could crash and burn. And start over.
He saw them often. Gerald hired on the Forest Service also and they crewed together sometimes. They planned an elk hunt in the fall.
He saw Stinnie most Sundays, helped him with any chore he might be doing.
It was good being sober.
The staircase rolls down ridgetops and canyon walls into deep shadow toward Bryce City. An occasional head, or taillight, trails through the dark.
Above, the turquoise sky turns into a fiery rose-pink sunset.
So quiet.
Thank you for reading Before I Forget . . !
For my new Subscribers - a post from Feb. 10, 2023,
Image by DALL-E 3
You have done it again. Clean simple poetic and deeply evocative prose.
A great place to start over. Accepting people and physical labor, a good combination. A hopeful tale, James. Thank you.