coming through the front door, i immediately begin to take in my surroundings. to my left is a small living room with an arm chair stationed in direct view of a television. the television is in front of a large window that looks out on the hill of the front yard, down to a two-lane blacktop road, and across it, to undeveloped, mostly barren land. next to the arm chair there is a small table, which is covered in things, and there are a few wooden chairs around it. to the right of the table, in front of me, flat up against the wall, is a couch with a large framed mirror hanging above its center. next to the couch on the right, there is a lamp sitting on a small end table. to my own right is a kitchenette with a small breakfast bar. this whole front area looks like a modified trailer, long and narrow, but i know there is much more to the place than what i can see. there seem to be extensions off both sides, leading to more spacious rooms, how many i do not know. i’m not quite sure how i ended up here, and i don’t know exactly where i am – somewhere out in county land, somewhere between cities.
hello?, i call out. a woman with frizzy red hair comes into the living room from the room beyond it to greet me. i shake her hand, exchange pleasantries. she invites me to put my bag down and make myself at home, which i am glad to do. a man in a wheelchair appears, rolls into the living room from the same place as the woman. he is a rough looking man in a plaid shirt. his hair is long, pulled back into a pony tail. he is not fat, but he is not a small man. he greets me from the living room, waving his arm hello. i take a few steps towards him, meeting him halfway. we shake hands firmly, exchange pleasantries. i have never met these people, but they were expecting me. i am meeting someone here, a friend, and he set up these accomodations, not i. in conversation i discover that this is something of an open house, this couple regularly hosting travellers and passers-by like myself. i imagine that hospitality is a hobby of theirs, and i find this to be very inspiring.
later, my friend arrives. i wake up on the couch as he taps an announcement of his arrival on the outside of the door and turns the knob to enter. the red-haired woman is standing before the stove in the kitchenette, and the man is seated in the arm chair in front of the tv. i sit up, rub my eyes, and in comes cameron with a large backpack tethered about his torso, wearing a royal blue bandana around his head. i’m here!, he says, and i smile, silent. the woman darts around the breakfast bar to greet him with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. the man calls out enthusiastically, and cameron drops his pack by the door and makes his way over to greet him properly. i stretch my arms and yawn my sleep away. i did not know that he was such good friends with this couple. they are clearly very glad to see him. he turns and comes over to me. i rise from couch. we are face to face. hello, i say. we embrace. i am very glad to see him too, and we stand holding each other for what seems like a long time before we disengage, smiling and speechless.
the four of us eat together, and talk for a long time before we all retire for the night. in the morning i find the red-haired woman standing before the stove in the kitchenette. sunlight sifts between the blinds that are drawn down over the wide window in the living room. it casts bright lines on the walls. it is still early, perhaps eight or nine o’clock. cameron is asleep on the couch, still in all his clothes (excepting his shoes, but including his bandana).
good morning.
good morning, i say to the woman. she is wearing a powder-pink bathrobe, and her frizzy red hair is wrapped up in a loose bun. she hands me a mug of coffee, and i sit at the little table, which is covered in things. i have no thoughts to write down, but this seems like a good time to have my journal open and sitting in front of me, just in case, so i reach into my bag and take it out. i sip on my coffee and read bits of assorted periodicals and chat with the woman. it is a slow and lovely morning, and i watch cameron sleep, and i watch particles of dust float through rays of sunlight.
cameron and i stay with the couple in their trailer-made-house for a few days. i enjoy spending time talking to the red-haired woman while she prepares food in the kitchenette, and sometimes i help her. one afternoon i meet the two daughters of the red-haired woman and her wheel chair-bound husband. i am introduced to them by their mother while we are standing in the brightly colored dining room that is that extends off the kitchenette. one of the daughters is convinced that we attended the same high school. i find this highly implausible, but she insists. though i still don’t know exactly where i am, i do know that it is not where i grew up. even so, she tries to persuade me.
are you sure you don’t remember the name catherine adamson?
it doesn’t ring a bell, i say, but maybe i just don’t remember. i wish she would drop it. though i think she is a pleasant girl, i will never believe her.
on the night before we are to depart, the man and woman take us to a nearby town for dinner. later that night, i am on my way into the living room when i hear the man in the wheel chair having a conversation with cameron. i stop just outside the entry. the man is offering cameron a job.
i’ve got this place called the shark fin, and it’s a real nice place, and i think it could be really successful, but i need a good bar tender to take charge for me since i can’t always be there. someone who has experience. someone who’s been a bartender at least as long as my place has been open – about five years - and i think you’re the perfect man for the job. you can stay here for as long as you need to, and i know we’re not very close to anything, but i really think you could get used to living out here. what do you say?
i watch cameron think for a few moments. i am nervous. i don’t know why. cameron’s serious expression breaks into a grin and he holds out his hand and says, i’ll do it. i am nervous. i don’t know why. the man leans forward in his wheel chair, grabs cameron’s right hand with his own and shakes, clasps his left hand on cameron’s right shoulder, laughing and exclaiming with excitement, i just knew you’d do it, but i’m so glad you said yes! so glad!
yeah, and i really think she’ll love it here too, says cameron, and my heart hurts and my stomach feels empty. i can’t hear words anymore. my heart hurts, and my stomach feels empty. i really think she’ll like it here, too. i can’t hear words anymore. i can’t even cry.
it is the early morning, and the sun is coming through the window in the living room, and the man is sitting in the arm chair, watching television. i feel compelled to wash some dishes before i leave, because i have nothing else to do, and i want to show my gratitude for the hospitality i have been shown the past few days. i scrape the leftover scraps of food into the trash with my fingers, and set the dishes in warm water to soak. when i finish, my hands have gotten very dirty, and i want to wash them before i begin to wash the dishes. i hold up my hands ask the man where the hand soap is because i do not see any by the sink. the man begins to scream wildly and convulse in his chair. i am stunned, and i do not know what to do. the woman runs into the living room, startled. her eyes dart from her husband, now on the floor, to me, seeming to demand explanation. i can barely put together the words to tell her that i don’t know what happened, he just went crazy all of a sudden, before she yells, wash your hands! i am confused, but i thrust my hands into the warm water with the dishes in the sink and rub them together to get as much of the grime off of them as i can. i look over, and the woman is doing her best to calm her husband down, cooing in his hear, telling him that everything is alright and to look at my hands, they’re clean now. i hold my them up to show him that she is right, and that seems to help. once she gets him settled back into the arm chair, he falls asleep almost immediately. i am sitting on the right arm of the couch, farthest away from the two of them. i am silent, shaking, perhaps noticeably. the woman comes over to me and sits down on the couch and puts her hand on my arm.
hey… are you okay?
i’m sorry, i say, i don’t know what happened… i just -
it’s not your fault. he has a condition. that’s his only thing that really sets him off.
dirty hands?, i think. i apologise again, even though i know i don’t have to, and i tell her that i’m okay. i decide that i will not go just yet. i want to wait for the man to wake up, and make sure he is okay and apologise to him personally.
that day, late in the afternoon, the man is awake and in a great mood, and i am preparing to depart. i apologised to him when he woke up, and just like his wife, he told me that it wasn’t my fault. for some reason, i felt better about the whole situation when he said it, but i now feel more indebted than ever. i haven’t seen cameron all day, but i haven’t thought about it much , because i know that if i do it will just make me sad and my heart will hurt and my stomach will feel empty. now i ask the man in the wheel chair, what can i do in thanks? i want to know. you have both been so good to me, i say, and i want to know what i can do in return. we are both sitting at the little table, which is covered in things. the man smiles, and shakes his head and says that i don’t have to do anything for him, and that it’s been a pleasure to have me stay with them. i implore him though, and finally he gives in and tells me frankly that he’d like a candy bar. such a simple request, yet so remarkably strange, i think. i am not quite sure what to say. i do not have any candy bars with me, and i embarrassedly admit this. i could give you some money, and then you could get some candy with that, i suggest. he looks and me and frowns.
son, i don’t want your money, i said i’d like a candy bar.
i am floundering internally, trying to solve this problem. i think there might be a gas station a few miles down the road, and i ask him what type of candy he likes best.
