Incident in Alaska

I thought I did this for fun, until I fell in a cascading slope of granite boulders, in the Talkeetna Mountains, pulled myself up, bloody, and realized just how easily my life could end here before I had time to realize it happened.

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One year and six weeks previous to that day, I was driving a Subaru Outback up a knobby, unkempt dirt road which catapulted myself and a crew of three other young men to the foot of the same mountains, just bellow Hatcher Pass, east of Palmer, Alaska.

It was the final days of my first trip to Alaska. The front end of the trip spent in the backcountry of Denali National Park, a three night backpacking excursion, which sapped the energy from most of us. June in Alaska is capricious, the weather fluctuates between kindly and demoralizing. Our trip began in the rain and ended in sunshine, but neither were constants for long. As one man told us, if you’ve come to Alaska, you’d better get used to wet feet, but Denali presented us with challenges deeper than soaked shoes. We were faced with navigation to our own discretion, trails don’t exist in this park, or in most of Alaska for that matter. The challenging terrain, bushwhacking, river crossings, and ridges laden with late season snow. Not to mention flaring tempers, made worse by exhaustion.

After three nights in Denali, the four of us knew each other better than we would have in a year of friendship in an urban environment. It was an opportunity to witness each others fears, strengths, weaknesses, diplomacy, and leadership. We were all on equal ground, for each of us, it was our first visit to what some call the Last Frontier, and, luckily, we exited with more respect for each other but also a growing dissent, due to the imbalance in what we desired from this trip.

That day, in the Subaru, we were debating whether to book an airbnb or find some other accommodations for the night. Sunlight filtered through the adjacent valley as I edged the car from Hatcher Pass road to Archangel road. The conversation made me uneasy. We were more than prepared to camp anywhere and we’d stayed in an airbnb the night before. I wanted to sleep in the mountains, that’s what I’d come to Alaska for in the first place.

However, I’d planned the front end of the trip, the rest of the trip was supposed to have been planned by one of the other guys in the group but, after exiting Denali, thus ending the portion of the trip I’d planned, we’d come to understand that the other planner had not done any planning at all. The back end of our trip was one big question mark.

Let me say that I don’t mind question marks. Question marks are fantastic. Question marks mean there’s an answer out there and, in this case, almost an unlimited supply of them. Question marks are great when traveling solo, as couples, or with vast amounts of time to travel. Question marks just aren’t great when you have three days left on a trip with four guys who have zero knowledge of the area in which they’re traveling, when most of it’s wilderness. Question marks are especially bad when half of a four man crew has reached their limit of camping and the other half is just getting started, considering we only had one rental car.

As the banter continued, no conclusion was concluded upon and we drove further down Archangel road, deeper into what I now know as Archangel Valley.

I lost touch with the debate as I watched the dark gray mountains and deep, tundra covered valley unravel in front of us. These mountains rose up like gigantic teeth, jagged spires, with boulders the size of small cars draping down to their bases. On all sides we were surrounded. Ahead, it looked as if the horizon had been clipped like paper from patterned scissors at craft hour, deep radial valleys rising to a single sharp point, repeating in all directions. Behind the front range, were mountains of equal and striking drama, layering the depth of the scene like the waves of a stormy sea. The sight pulled the air from my lungs.

At the end of the road, which was blocked by a rusty ranch gate, I stopped the car, opened the door, and ran down a boot path into the adjacent valley, leaving the guys and the car behind.

The wind picked up and the rush of Fair Angel creek met my ears. I stood for a long time, staring at the mountains, the creek, and the valley where it flooded out toward the Little Susitna. In the distance, the sun shone warmly against the bright green mountains but, over us, storm clouds were building.

Few moments in my life have I felt the sensation of synchronicity, where, for an instant, life feels like it’s clicking along tracks which where laid before my first breath. It was in that moment, that I knew this mountain range held something for me, something I still don’t understand.

That night, we camped near the spot I’d run to from the car. Though the others found the location appealing, none of them voiced an experience quite like mine, and I knew I was alone. There was something else I felt, that I’d arrived at the beginning of a journey, would retrace my steps soon, and the secret these mountains held would be revealed in time, or one step at a time, not all at once.

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My next trip to Alaska brought me deeper into those mountains, the Talkeetna Range. On a fair August day, five others and myself packed our backpacks at the edge of Archangel road, not far from where I’d camped a year previous. We were preparing for a five night, hut to hut, mountain traverse that had yet to be completed by anyone else.

At interval, I glanced to the valley which I’d felt the spark to visit these mountains, but the moment had passed, I no longer sensed it’s whisper. Still, I knew I was brought here for a reason and understood that those sparks are not unlike the glimmer of a lover’s eyes from across a room, the beginning of a relationship, and I intended to find out where it led.

Packed, ready, and humming with nervous chatter, we hurried up Reed Creek and soon ascended toward Glacier Pass, drifting past ruins of old mining buildings and equipment, long forgotten. Crunching over what was left of a snowfield before hopping through a rise of boulders, we reached the pass and I saw for the first time what lay beyond the initial curtain of mountains.

In front of me stretched a wide basin and the flat sheet of the Snowbird glacier, guarded on the opposite side by stubby peaks and a sweeping ridge line. Gray clouds, flecked gold in the fading light, hovered not far from the tips of the mountains. Beyond the initial set of ridges, it seemed that rows of jagged peaks continued forever toward the horizon.

We stumbled and slipped our way down a steep, rock studded snowfield to the top of the glacier. Donning our crampons, we crossed the glacier and continued to the foot of a steep, loose climb of sharp granite boulders. At the top of which we would find Snowbird hut but it wasn’t visible from our vantage.

It was halfway up this boulder field that I began to question every notion I’d had, leading up to this point in my life.

Elated from the dramatic landscape I’d covered in the past few hours and excited to find the first of the five huts we’d stay at during our trip, I made crucial errors and miscalculations in my ascent of the final obstacle.

I hadn’t taken the thirty seconds to stow my crampons after exiting the glacier, a single cleat dangled from either hand. Because of this, my trekking pole was parallel to the ground, secured in my fist, and useless. I was hurrying, confident on my feet, even in boulder fields, and quickly hopped upward to catch the three companions ahead of me. It was also nearing the end of the day, we’d closed in on our destination, and, even insurance companies will tell you, most accidents occur within five miles of home. Complacency is the doom of the wise.

Before I knew what was happening, a large boulder under my foot tipped down under my weight, and the next thing I heard was the pop of my skull against granite. After which, the world turned dark.

I’ve never been knocked unconscious, even though I played hockey for many years and dared my life against many unadvisable acts in my youth. This time was no different, I was coherent. I could feel my knees against the rocks, my hands against the boulders, as I lifted myself from the fall. I scrambled to touch my face and grope for damage that would warrant the sudden change in my eyesight. The whole time my mind screamed, fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

I’m not sure why the mind defaults to vulgarity when faced with trauma, but mine does, it’s also really fantastic at graphically depicting all the possible outcomes after incident. I was almost certain I’d gone blind, split my skull, fractured a disc in my neck, and was doomed to bleed out without seeing a single thing again.

It’s also worth noting that I am not prone to drama, in fact I detest over dramatization, because I see the world mechanically, and if everything has a purpose and function, when something goes wrong, there is a cause, a solution, or, if nothing else, it must be discarded. I hold dearly my own life but I don’t count myself special or gifted beyond the snare of an early or sudden death.

In those moments of darkness after the fall, I glimpsed into the instant nature of the end. It’s nebulous, drifting around our atmosphere like a vulture we cant see, waiting for the time to strike, and, in my own mind, I’d graced myself with the notion I’d have the opportunity to revisit the highlights of my life and say I love you’s before the lights clicked out. What I came to understand that day, is that death wears many faces, strikes at will, and has no courtesies. We are only guaranteed ceremony once it’s too late.

When I rose to my knees and touched my face, feeling for blood and gashing crevices, my fingers found a foreign material, and it took me a second to realize it was my Buff.

A Buff is a stretchy band of synthetic material in the shape of a tube. Handy things. Worn as a sweat band, neck warmer, dust mask, and balaclava. Used as a rag, a shield against sizzling pots, or, unfortunately, sacrificed if rations of toilet paper are depleted. In this case, I’d been wearing it as a sweat band.

Soon, I understood that the collision had shifted my Buff over my eyes, and my loss of sight was quickly remedied and, when I pulled it off my head, the light flooded back to me. I’ve honestly never been so happy to see boulders in all my life. But my happiness was short lived as blood began to drip down my nose and over my eyebrows, warning of damage that wasn’t as easily resolved.

Two of my friends, who were below me on the boulder field and didn’t see my fall, soon caught up, helped me to the hut, cleaned, and dressed my cuts. Looking back, the damage was negligible. I’d skinned the bridge of my nose to the bone, scraped and cut my forehead, one of these cuts in the shape of a lightning bolt, as well as minor abrasions above my eyebrow. The damage, however, was deeper internally than it was on the surface.

The fall made me question the reason I come to places like Alaska and why this particular section of mountains call to me, even as I write this to you. Because leisure and enjoyment aren’t strong enough justifications in the face of injury or possible death. Though we do many dangerous things that bring a thrill, rush becomes addiction, and drives us further to find that sensation which dives deeper into the cracks of our humanity the more we chase it. But what seduced me to begin with?

As adrenaline wore off, I felt a well rising in my chest, something I couldn’t control, though I tried. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I walked from snowbird hut and found a boulder at the edge of a cliff, facing north toward Bartholf creek valley.

Evening settled in and bruise colored clouds hung flat overtop. The valley, three thousand feet below the peaks which bordered it, was dressed in violent shades of blue, and extended for several miles ahead. The single stripe of the creek rushed through its center, far beyond the reach of my ears.

At the sight of the empty space, careless of my presence, my chest convulsed, and my eyes turned into faucets. Though I’d escaped the most dramatic personal accident of my career as an outdoorsman, with wounds that would heal, I’d shattered my innocence, crossing a barrier in myself, and understood the weight of my decision to venture across environments as unforgiving as those found in Alaska. I was no longer an amateur. With that understanding came a responsibility for self and for the rest of my crew, that I’d yet to grasp.

It also presented a decision. To allow danger to hinder my steps, force me back to safety, or to use this incident as an opportunity to learn. I chose the latter. Not in response to ego but for the irrevocable truth that not once in my life have I felt as close to the essence of existence, as I do when I’m in the heart of the mountains. Though lurking danger can immediately snuff life’s flame, in environs such as this, I never forget the thump, beating madly at times, within my chest. I realized that these trips were not about fun but rather, to beat back the current of life which sweeps us away, unaware of time passing, before we are catapulted into the great void beyond its wake.

Confinement

The alarm is a set of chimes, the tone and number of their call is precise and the same as it was each day before. My eyes open to the ceiling. Gray, featureless, no lamps. The room is lit softly from the window, the only light allowed here is that which comes from outside.

I don’t bother looking for the source of the chimes, they will end after thirteen tones, just as they always have.

I exhale as the final note plays and rise.

In the room is a small desk with a screen and a keyboard resting atop. The screen is black. A black leather couch rests on the opposite wall of my bed. The walls are bare. The carpet is plush, a beige that reminds me of some natural element that I can’t remember.

Thirty seconds from the last chime is all I have before I must go clean, or else my privilege is lost for the day. I rise without hurry from the bed, flipping the gray comforter from my legs, and leave the room.

In the bathroom, I wait. From my calculations, I have ten seconds before it happens. I stand in front of the sink, a square mirror hangs above, reflecting my image back. At least, I think it’s me but I don’t remember. Steel gray walls surround me. A glass corral conceals the shower. All of it is clean.

There aren’t handles on the faucet in the sink or the shower. No cleaning supplies, brushes, or combs lay about. There is nothing here that shouldn’t be.

The last three seconds extinguish as I wait, prepared.

A tone sounds. After which, a square in the wall extends toward me. It’s a drawer without depth, a flat surface like a platter. On the drawer is a toothbrush, it glimmers at me, sparkling clean.

I grab the brush. The drawer disappears into the wall and I wait, unthinking, with the end of the brush poised near the drawer. Another tone. This time a cylinder emerges from the wall, extending perpendicularly. With my toothbrush underneath, the nozzle lays a quarter inch of tooth paste on the bristles, and retreats back into the wall.

A second later, the faucet turns on, and I’m ready. A splash of water, then the tap stops. After this, I have ninety seconds to brush my teeth before the next spatter of water comes, this time it lasts for ten seconds. It allows me to rinse my mouth and the brush before the drawer spits out from the wall, I place the brush its cradle, and the drawer pulls back again.

There was a time I watched as this played out in front of me and I questioned the purpose but those times have passed, I have learned it is better to silence the mind and simply follow the cues. Nothing here can harm me, I no longer worry. It is only for my good and if I do not wash, breakfast will not come. I figured this out the the hard way.

There are fifteen seconds now for me to undress. I pull off my black athletic shorts and strip the tee off my back, both are of the same color and material. I set them on a shelf near the toilet. Soon, a rectangle opens, it hisses, and the garments are sucked away. I stand naked in front of the glass doors to the shower and looked down. My penis lays flat against my scrotum, it’s color consistent. The hairs surrounding are short and trim, as are the hairs that cover my legs. A shiver runs up my body as I wait.

A pneumatic sound and the glass door slides open. I step in. The door closes behind me. It is locked now, the door, I’ve tried to open it before but it is not a trap, only to keep the water inside the compartment. At least, that’s what I assume.

The shower head comes to life. The spray embraces my skin, a perfect temperature, not too hot or cool. Nozzles emerge from the wall. Shampoo first, then conditioner, finally comes body wash. I scrub thoroughly. My scalp, face, arms, chest, pits, legs, and feet. Moving quickly through these, I save my anus, balls, and penis for last, spending more time on them than the others. I don’t know why, there is some primal urge that forces me into this routine. As I wash my penis, I feel a prickle of electricity run through my stomach, but I force the feeling away. Last time, when I pursued this sensation, the water turned icy and I shivered the rest of the day because of it.

Two minutes later, I am rinsed and the shower head stops. Not one drip continues from the end, it is completely dry. Large squares open from each wall, the ceiling, and the floor of the tub. There is a gurgle from the vents and they come to life, whipping warm air at me from all directions. I stand with my legs spread and run my hands through my hair to help it dry quickly. After a short while, I am dry. The shower door hisses open and I step onto the cold floor.

On the shelf, where I placed my shorts and shirt, lays a pressed white dress shirt, gray slacks, black tie, black belt, and a shining pair of black shoes.

I quickly dress and check myself in the mirror one last time. My black hair is trim and appears combed, though I haven’t touched it. My eyes are silver, the same color as the walls. My body is overall thin but there is muscular definition to my face, neck, and shoulders. After this moment, which I know is the last moment I will see myself for the day, the mirror fades away and becomes part of the steel gray walls.

I walk from the bathroom and the door shuts behind me.

From there I enter the only other room in the flat. It resembles a kitchen but there isn’t a stove, sink, or microwave. It is empty except for a small square table with two chairs. The same gray walls surround all sides, nothing hangs from them, with a single window opposite from the table. I sit at the chair which faces the window and the empty seat across from me.

As usual, I contemplate the seat and the window, both useless. The blinds are drawn and the seat vacant.

Natural light floods through the slits of the blinds but, otherwise, nothing else is to be seen. I am not allowed to approach the window, because the blinds will fold over and close all light from the room, I’ve tried. I like the light, so I have not attempted this again.

The seat is a question in itself. It seems out of place because it is only I who occupies this place and I cannot sit in both chairs at once. However, I have the option to sit in the other chair, if I choose. This is the one thing I have a decision in, everything else is left to their discretion. Still, not once have I had company, one chair always remains empty, and I hate it for being here. It reminds me of an emotion I cannot recall, like standing at the edge of a dark hole, an emptiness whose depth is without measure.

Three minutes pass, as I sit at the table. I do not know why I have so much time without anything to occupy my thoughts but it’s always this way. I press away the questions of what lays on the opposite side of the window, the empty chair and table, but they come flying back at me as if they intend not to go unnoticed.

The bell rings, a ding-dong, and I rise from my seat.

Tracing my steps back through the room, I stop where the hall turns to my right, leading to the bathroom and bedroom. To my left is something that is only here three times a day, a door.

I step towards it.

It is a door unlike the rest, all of them automatic, because, on this one, is a handle. Another decision I have yet to mention, is that I can choose to open the door or watch as it fades away, a minute later. But I do not count this as much of a decision because my stomach growls in hunger and forces me to grab the handle, as I have always done.

I open the door. On the other side is a young woman. She is wearing a navy blue uniform dress that rises to her neck, culminating in a white collar. Her face is fair and her features smooth, framed by shoulder length black hair. She is younger than me, I can tell, no lines at the edge of her smile or eyes as I do. In her hands is a metal tray with a lid over it’s contents. Next to the lid is a thermos of steaming coffee.

A fragrant smell of living things strike my nose, drifting toward me from a warm breeze at her back but her hair does not shift in the wind. Behind her extends a concrete walkway, it travels straight and is bordered by green plants and tall trees. The sunlight tips the trees in gold but leaves the walkway in the cool of shadows. There is no one else in view. No buildings except for my own. The only thing that exists is the path which leads from my door, a path that I will always wonder to which it leads, but I am not allowed to travel its length. There is a stab of pain in my heart at the thought, similar to the sensation the chair gives me.

“Good Morning, Cornelius.” The woman says. Her tone is harmonic and her syllables well placed. Her face shows no emotion.

“Good Morning, Tabitha.” I return the greeting.

“Here is your breakfast.” She extends the tray. “The coffee is black. A light roast, just the way you like it.” She adds.

I nod and take the tray. This is the moment I should return to my room but I hesitate.

“Will I be allowed to leave today?” I ask and search her black eyes. They tell me nothing.

“Not today, Cornelius. It is still too dangerous. Maybe tomorrow.” She says, her tone is without inflection.

“You said that yesterday. It seems peaceful out. I could keep close to home.” I say.

Tabitha nods but it isn’t agreement.

“It may seem that way, Cornelius. But we are safe here, beyond what we can see are dangers I cannot explain. This is for your own good.” Tabitha says at last. As she speaks, she moves to the side and we both gaze down the path that leads from my door.

The breeze ripples the leaves of the bulbous shaped trees and square bushes. Nothing else moves. No animals stir or call. The path is clean, there isn’t a speck of debris anywhere. I cannot see where the path leads, before long it descends and drops out of sight. In the daylight, it looks inviting and I feel lust rising in my chest, even though I know what Tabitha says is true.

“Where do you go, when you are not bringing my food?” I ask her at last.

“Secrets are our only way to remain safe, Cornelius. You must not ask questions of this nature. Knowledge brings danger. I am your doorkeeper and I am here to keep you safe, what I do beyond that does not matter. I exist for this alone.” Tabitha tells me.

I nod and look down at the tray. The scent of the coffee rises to my nostrils and awakens my craving.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask her.

“I cannot keep watch on your door if I join you. You must understand this.” She replies.

“Why do I have two chairs?” I ask her.

“Because a table is not complete without it.”

“But the chair remains empty. It’s excessive. I don’t like looking at it.” I say.

“One day, the chair will be filled and then will you understand. But you must be patient.” Tabitha says and folds her hands across her stomach.

“I have been here for a long time, Tabitha. Not one is coming. There is no one here but you and if you will not come in then I will sit alone again today.” I say.

“One day, it will be safe again, you will walk the path and others will join you. But you must put these thoughts away, they can only harm you, and you will be lonelier because of them. For now, you must remain inside and safe.” She tells me.

“When will one day come?” I ask.

“You must go back inside, Cornelius. The door is about to close.” Tabitha says firmly.

I nod and step backwards, not wanting to turn my eyes from her. Once I’m past the door, it closes automatically and disappears. I am locked in silence.

I return to the table and set the tray down. From the window filters white light, the warmth I’d seen at my door is extracted from it, and it glows pale and soft around the room.

After I’m seated, I lift the tray, releasing the scent of freshly seared vegetables, eggs, and a single biscuit.

I grab the biscuit and peel it apart. As I do, something falls from its center to the ground. A thin strip of paper. I scoot back and reach under the table to pick it up. It is folded and blank on either side. When I open it, there is a single word scrawled upon it’s surface in black ink.

ESCAPE, it reads.

The note does not alarm me. In fact, I receive this same note every morning, only at breakfast, tucked away in a biscuit or muffin, under my coffee, or wrapped in a tortilla. Similar one word messages, all of them. Such as; FREEDOM, UNTRUTH, DISBELIEVE, LIES, HIDDEN, GO. I do not have the courage to ask Tabitha where they come from, I do not want her to worry. As she said, I must remain here, it is unsafe for me to leave, and I believe her.

I place the strip of paper on my biscuit, butter over it, and eat it, as I have done each morning before.

For Better

It was the first date when I asked her the question.

Nervous, searching for topics to cover, things that we could expand our lungs on, and mostly just sounding like I was interviewing her for a job that she hadn’t officially applied for. I’ve always been like that, rattling off words from my mouth in rhythm like the steady clap of a machine gun, bullets replaced by question marks, coming in such rapid succession that one might get caught with too many and tangled in the long arch of the symbol, like a lamb pulled in separate directions by multiple well intentioned but untimely shepherd hooks.

We were seated in the corner table at The Lot, a tiny Italian restaurant on the eastern fringe of Ballard. A corner table seems like a great thing. In fact, I was overjoyed when the host said that the corner table was all they had, unaware or too distracted to notice that he cringed when he offered the table. I piped up immediately, before Alice, my date, could say anything. I had asked her out to dinner and I had chosen the restaurant to meet, and it seemed the proper thing to decide where we sat, if there were any choice given, which it seemed as though we did. The host slowly grabbed menus from under the pulpit as if he’d had a sudden onset of lower back pain, glanced uneasily at us when he came upright again, and nodded, as if realizing that we wouldn’t be swayed, which was correct, but at the time, I had no reason to think any different and only took his slow movement for physical disability.

I held my place for a second, allowing Alice to lead, not because I thought it gentlemanly or chivalrous but simply because the low lighting was very discreet and she was wearing shorts. I did try my best to keep my eyes level with the back of her head but she wore her brunette hair down and curled, my eyes slipped down her hair like kids on a twisting slide at the playground, then I saw the tag sticking up from her tank top and my eyes stopped suddenly and I fought the very urgent need to either fix the tag or alert her to the rogue label.

‘Here we are.’ The host said.

His voice came from very close, thats because I’d been so intent on Alice’s back I forgot to look up until I was a foot away from the curly head teenager. He smiled uncomfortably and took a cautious step back, mumbling something about excusing himself. Alice was turning to sit and didn’t see the exchange, which relieved me and I moved swiftly to my seat, thanking the host who turned and left us to ourselves for a few short moments.

The corner table, if you can call it that, is a nook in the wall toward the back of the establishment. To my left was the wall. Behind Alice was a wall. To my right was the bar, not two feet away, so small was the aisle that waiters had to turn sideways and hold trays over seated guests while avoiding the bar crowd which had its own surging movements like the waves of an excited sea. Directly behind me and to my left, were the swinging doors from the kitchen, from which streamed a torturous scent of marinara and parmesan that made my head swim, but the doors did more than allow the mouthwatering aroma of Italian cuisine to my seat, which I realized shortly after.

‘Well.’ I said, sighing a breath of satisfaction and grabbing the menu with both hands. Alice just smiled and looked down at hers.

‘This place smells amazing.’ She exhaled. The clink of glasses and guys at the bar describing in great detail the symmetry of last week’s girl’s gluteus drowned out Alice’s little voice. I strained to listen, edging up to the table and crouching over its edges.

‘What was that?’ I asked, raising my voice a little but trying to keep it at a becoming level.

‘I said, this place’ she raised a finger and half twirled it in the air ‘smells amazing.’

‘Oh yeah! It does. Whats your favorite-‘

I was cut off by something colliding with the backside of my chair which shoved me a little further into the table and rattled the glasses which were filled to the brim with water. I twisted to see who the assailant was but the only villain I saw was the shadowy blur of the swinging door and a sweating server dancing between tables with a tray full of lasagna. I sighed and turned back to Alice.

She was giggling and looking down at the menu.

‘Well that’s fun.’ I said, trying to keep my humor and failing.

‘It’s perfect.’ She said, but something far too interesting kept her eyes on the menu.

I was only bumped by the doors three more times before we ordered drinks and food, lasagna for Alice and fettuccini for me. We both ordered cheap beers and I was glad when she ordered first because I hate spending outrageous money for half way decent beer, usually defaulting on the three dollar cans, and it seemed that she felt the same.

We tapped our glistening Rainiers together, mine slipping a tiny bit from my hand, and I realized that my palms were sweating more profusely than the can. After a healthy chug and still not knowing quite what to say, I launched my frontal assault of questioning, but in the back of my mind I wanted to warn her about the tag.

‘So you’re a nurse?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, pediatric ICU. I love it.’ She said, running a finger around the rim of her can.

‘Why?’ I asked. Ruckus from the two nearest barstools broke out and flooded my voice.

‘What?’ She said. Alice leaned closer, over the table, the cut in her top revealed just enough and I tried not to look but it was too late. She caught me, I played it off like I was looking at her can. It didn’t work.

‘What do you love about it?’ I asked.

She was quiet for a second, thinking about it.

‘Its just an amazing feeling, helping tiny humans survive an untimely or complicated birth. Watching them grow and get strong and finally released back to their parents. Its a beautiful thing.’ She looked down at her beer, turning the tab a couple degrees. ‘It’s tough too. Sometimes they don’t make it. Sometimes the worst happens. I guess it makes me more grateful on a daily basis, you know, that I was lucky enough to have a simple and successful birth. That I’m alive.’ She finished and took a swig. I copied her.

‘You’re job impacts you a lot?’ I asked.

‘Yes and no. I try to leave work at work because it is a lot of weight to carry, if you keep it stuffed in a bag and lug it around everywhere.’ She said.

‘It’s sounds like it’s hard to keep from bringing it home.’ I said.

Alice shrugged.

‘You caught me.’ She offered.

I realized that maybe I should delve into a lighter subject, since this was our first date and I barely knew her and this obviously wasn’t the easiest thing to talk about. But I guess I’ve learned that many people don’t get the chance to talk about the things that affect them on the day to day basis and I tend to open up space for that, forgetting that it can have a negative affect on the atmosphere altogether. I started to panic. Imagining she’d go home with little Tommy or Bethany or Isaac or Sarah on her mind, little humans she grown attached to but didn’t make it in the end. Babies that she’d probably already cried over and had more tears to shed if the right memories were brought to the surface like an oil spill riding the turquoise waters of her thoughts. Thats not how I wanted her to remember me. What I wanted was her to remember what a great time she had and that maybe, with a capitol M, she would want to see me again. I switched the subject.

‘Do you-‘

SLAM!

The swinging door hit my chair so hard that it shoved me into the table I was already pressed too tightly against and my mostly full beer launched a hoppy spout like the snort of a great whale from its mouth with a trajectory for Alice’s face. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, I saw the surprise in her face, the tiny flicking movements of her perfectly separated eyelashes as they batted away the initial specks of flying beer. The rest of the spout turned over in the air, like watching an astroid spinning in the weightless universe, then all at once it collided with her face and chest. I was mortified. My hand crunched around the beer can, nearly folding it. Alice didn’t make a move, except looking down and gauging the damage with indifference. I expected her to cry out. I wanted her to be angry, maybe yell at the server or barge off madly to the bathroom to fix herself. Instead, while cheap suds dripped down her chin and into her shirt, she did the thing I never thought would happen.

Alice laughed. The full, happy, not a care in the world, the beer might as well have been a cool shower on a hot day, kind of laugh. Her head tilted back and her smiling mouth opened.

Too frightened to understand, I could only do one thing. I laughed with her. We laughed like two kids, stoned in the back yard, watching youtube videos of bad lip-syncing. It was the most relieving and beautiful thing that has ever happened to me on a date in my life. To this day I still think that you should laugh like you have beer all over your face, but no one understands except Alice.

We laughed until our sides ached. Until the server came over with our food and looked at us suspiciously, thinking that maybe he should warn the bartender that we’d had far too much to drink already.

We were wiping away tears when Alice pointed to something near me.

‘Can I have one of those?’ She asked.

I thought she meant me but she was pointing to what was squashed under my elbow, a pile of napkins. I handed her one, still biting back laughter that escaped like carbonation bubbles.

Once we settled down and finished half of our meal, she spoke up.

‘What was it you wanted to ask me, before?’ She asked.

‘Oh yeah. It was nothing really.’ I said, while stuffing a forkful of noodles and alfredo sauce in my mouth.

‘No, tell me. Don’t be all shy now.’ She said playfully.

I swallowed too quickly. It was nothing really, just another one of my interrogative inquisitions.

‘I was just curious if you liked to cook?’ I said, trying not to act like it meant anything.

She chewed on her food and the question for a minute.

‘No.’ She said laconically.

‘Like not at all?’ I asked.

‘Like not at all.’ She replied.

I tilted my head to the side, eyeing her with suspicion.

‘Okay. I give in.’ She said, holding up her hands in surrender. ‘The real answer to the question is that I love good food and don’t like to pay someone else to make it for me every night of the week. So, I cook. And I’m a damn good cook. But like it? Ehh. That’s different. I do it out of my own desire to eat well and not an ambition to assemble beautiful edible things.’ With that, she knifed another slice of her lasagna.

I smiled.

‘I like you.’ I said, after awhile.

‘I know.’ She replied.

I cooked most of the time and even now I can hear the echoes of Alice barking orders, after tasting a bit of curry or sauce or whatever I was making.

‘It needs salt.’ or ‘A pinch of turmeric and a teaspoon of cumin, maybe a splash of paprika.’ or ‘Jesus, a little basil and oregano goes a long way.’ and ‘What is this? Are you trying to assassinate me by chili seasoning overdose or what?’

I would be peacefully stirring away, tasting, and thinking I’d done quite a fine job when she would walk into the kitchen, she was studying for her masters then and still wearing her glasses and a short face from reading long words, shoulder me to the side and begin making her adjustments. More this, less of that. I couldn’t argue. She was always right. What she hadn’t told me that first date was that her father was a cook for a long time and taught her how to properly make anything from hollandaise sauce to cordon bleu. I learned a lot from her.

She was always kind and never treated me ill for my shortcomings in the kitchen. Alice saw my potential and treated me as a project, one that needed care and training and consistent involvement if I were ever to ascend to her level of culinary professionalism. Well, as a professional critic that is.

Even now, as my quiet studio on the south side of the city creaks with the sound of new lovers on the floor above, I can feel her nuzzling up to me and saying, ‘Adam, you’ve really become quite the chef. I’m proud.’ Which would be poorly placed because I’m making boxed macaroni and cheese and the only thing I added was pepper, hoping the spice will sting my eyes and hide the reason my salty tears are soiling the pasta.

Alice walks about my flat in bare feet, flops on the couch and opens a book on advanced anatomy while I stir near the stove. Her brown hair lays softly on her shoulder and her blue eyes are framed by square glasses, staring intensely at words that I don’t understand. Sometimes I wish she would go and she does but only to come back again when I’m cooking or reading a novel she never approved of. It would be much easier to let her go if she had left of her own free will. If she had just told me, ’That’s it, Adam. I’m done with you and this and I’m going now.’ But that’s not what happened and this isn’t why she’s haunting me and there’s a chance I’ll find her again somewhere other than my waking dreams, for better or worse.